by Greig Beck
He sighed as he picked up the phone. He had to tell the boss. And he bet he already knew what he’d recommend.
“Get me General Chilton.”
CHAPTER 22
Alex took the lead with Casey Franks. They moved in a double line, jogging this time. Sam was close to the civilians, and even though Morag felt safer having the huge warrior so close to them, she still felt a shiver run from the base of her spine up to her scalp. The mountain crater top had moved from just being weird and creepy to now goddamn deadly.
The HAWCs had their shields facing the greasy looking forest, and to Morag it felt like she was inside a locomotive, with the swirling discs of compressed air as the wheels, and the walls of armored HAWC muscle their carriage.
The ground squelched beneath their feet, and several times Morag slid as they weaved in and around the huge columns that loomed from the mist. She couldn’t determine if they were mutated trees, mud-coated rock formations, or the actual mud itself, trying to grow up and out of the crater. But the strange thing was there were more and more of them. And when she looked closer, she thought she could see movement inside them, like crustaceans and worms squirming in the soft mud of a riverbank at low tide.
After a while Alex called a halt and bent to pick something up. The soldiers immediately went into a defensive ring around him while his attention was diverted.
Morag marveled at how these Special Forces soldiers worked like a machine, every one of them knowing what was expected before it was even asked. Looking past them, she saw the muscles in Alex’s shoulders bunch for a moment as if he was straining against what it was he held, or maybe against something inside him. After another moment, the HAWC leader tossed the thing aside.
“Double time.” He waved them on, picking up his pace.
As Morag passed by the object she saw it was the missing HAWC’s helmet, torn off and cracked open, like the skin of a watermelon. She glimpsed something moist inside it, but didn’t want to look too closely because she already knew it was going to be blood.
Alex pushed his gun up over his shoulder and held up a hand. The group stopped.
“Sam.”
The HAWC jogged forward, and Morag waved Calvin with her and muscled through the group so they could hear.
Alex and Sam stared at something on the ground, and Casey Franks faced the haze, her back to them, and gun up to cover them.
“Ah, shit.” Sam’s massive shoulder’s fell.
Morag continued to watch Alex Hunter. She frowned. Oddly, his body looked like it was beginning to vibrate. On one arm, he held the swirling shield and over his back his gun. But his free fist was clenched and it shook as though he was under extreme pressure.
She inched forward to see what they had found – then wished she hadn’t. Bones. All of them stripped of meat but still streaked with red strands of gristle and sinew. The larger ones were cracked to get at the marrow. Beside them was a shredded HAWC armored suit. The super-tough plating and Kevlar weave was no match for whatever had peeled the man out of it to get to the soft flesh beneath.
Steve Knight, she remembered him – he’d been a nice guy. Her breath caught in her throat. Knight was as tough as they come – but never stood a chance against whatever had taken him.
“Oh god.” She turned away, and she heard Calvin gag. The final insult was the skull, sitting upright in the greasy mud. It, too, having anything edible – inside and out – ripped or scooped from it.
She heard a growl, deep and menacing. Morag turned back, made fearful by its proximity. Her first impulse was to back away, as she expected them to be confronted by the thing that had devoured the young HAWC. But she quickly found where the sound was coming from – Alex Hunter.
“Boss?” Sam reached out a hand toward his leader, and quickly turned to Casey Franks.
“Get ’em back.”
The female HAWC immediately spun, pushing at the civilians and HAWCs alike. She elbowed Morag, but the journalist dodged around her and continued to watch.
Sam held Alex’s shoulder, but Morag could see he was actually keeping him at a distance. He also brought his shield around to be between them.
“Pull it back, boss … fight it,” Sam urged softly.
Alex Hunter’s two armored fists came up, still vibrating for a second or two before his rage exploded.
Sam stepped well back as Alex swung the arm that held the shield into an outcrop of rock, the granite protrusion blew apart into a thousand fragments with a noise the journalist even felt up through the soles of her feet. But he wasn’t finished, with his free hand he swung back at the rock, punching it, and blasting out another huge piece of stone, which flung away into the shadowy mist.
Then, with a continuing roar, he battered the rock until the outcrop was rubble.
She knew that the HAWC gloves were armor plated, but she had to assume his hand was smashed to smithereens.
“Stop that!” she yelled. What good was he going to be to the group with just one hand?
Sam kept his distance as though waiting for the hurricane to blow itself out. Morag crossed to him, grabbing his hefty forearm.
“Lieutenant, aren’t you going to stop him? He’ll cripple himself.”
Sam looked down, staring for a few seconds, before pushing her back behind him to shield her … from Alex.
“No, he’ll be fine. He’s … different to us.” He looked back to where Alex was finishing demolishing the boulders, and whispered more to himself than to her. “He just needs to let him out.”
She looked up at him. The way he said ‘him’, made her think it wasn’t some sort of episode where he was just blowing off steam, but more like something – someone – that needed to escape. Her journalistic instincts immediately kicked in.
“Who … what, is he letting out?”
“What?” Sam said distractedly, and then quickly looked back at her. “Nothing. He’s just pissed. We all are.”
“Nothing, huh?” She repeated and looked back at Alex. More like something, she bet.
After a moment more, Alex went to his knees, and placed one hand on the severed skull of Steve Knight for a moment as though saying farewell. He let his damaged right hand dangle at his side. He rose slowly.
“I fucking knew it,” she whispered. Morag saw that his right hand was deformed from the impacts, as she expected it to be. In his gloves, she saw that the small bones of the fingers, the knuckles and the metacarpal bones in the hand were probably obliterated, and now more like splintered wood.
Idiot. Now you’re fucking useless when we need you most.
She was about to give Sam Reid a piece of her mind, when she saw Alex Hunter straighten and roll his shoulders. He held up his smashed hand, and while she watched, the bones within the gloves seemed to pop back into place, the knuckles sliding and moving, and the fingers straightening.
“What the …?” Her mouth hung open.
“Like I said, he’s different,” said Sam.
Alex took in a deep breath and rejoined them. Sam Reid placed one hand on his shoulder.
“He’s gone, boss, there’s nothing more we can do.”
Alex’s eyes were still blazing. “We can be ready next time. These things are not indigenous, and whatever came down in that shuttle is a direct threat.” He turned to the mist. “To be eliminated with extreme prejudice.”
“I hear that,” Sam said. He turned to Morag. “Let’s go.”
She let him direct her back to the group, but she turned a question gnawing at her. “Hey, I know one of the things you guys were supposed to do was search for survivors. If there was even the remote chance anyone made it down alive in that shuttle, how could they survive with those things down here?”
“They couldn’t,” Alex said.
Anne Peterson’s arms were folded tight, as she overheard. “If the fuselage was intact, they could seal themselves in.”
“Maybe, but unlikely,” Alex said. “These things seem strong enough to peel the skin of the Or
lando open. Better for the astronauts if they were dead when they arrived.”
“Don’t say that.” Anne said something else, but it was unintelligible.
“It’s okay, Anne,” Scott McIntyre said, and reached out to put an arm around her, their suits chafing against each other. “We gotta keep some hope, right?” He looked from Alex to Sam.
Both had grim expressions.
“Let’s find that shuttle, and get the hell out of here,” Sam said.
Morag turned and saw Scott rub his wounded arm and grimace.
CHAPTER 23
Zlatan waved his men to a crouch. He momentarily ground his teeth from the pain behind his eyes – the headaches were still there, worse. And he was hungry all the time; not for the shitty protein bars they had all been given to last them the mission, but for something more … substantial.
He looked to his man closest to him – Stroyev – he looked different now. His brow seemed heavier, his entire head elongated. The man had never been handsome, in fact quite ugly. But now his features made him look grotesque. Even his eyes seemed – no, were – larger, and the pupils were glossy black and dominating the entire orb.
He faced away. Maybe I’m seeing things in this damned dust-fog. Or maybe seeing things clearer. He reached up and felt his forehead. There were strange bumps there and the brow was just as heavy as Stroyev’s. Oh Rahda, I wish I’d stayed with you. But he was determined to finish his mission quickly and escape this hellish place. Once home, he knew his fantastic metabolism could heal anything. They’d all be good as new in no time.
Zlatan pivoted, realizing his vision was sharper now and he could see further into the mist. Now he could make out shapes, and his mind formed mental pictures, impressions, without even seeing them.
He peered around one of the slime trunks that seemed to be growing larger by the minute. He knew now their mission was nearly complete as he watched the remains of the downed space shuttle orbiter appear out of the mist.
Getting close, it was bigger than he expected. The craft was 122 feet in length, fifty-nine feet high, and with a wingspan of nearly eighty feet. Both stubby wings had been sheared off, and there was fragment debris everywhere. He could see the long skid line disappearing back into the smog where the shuttle had come in and slid to a halt. Surprisingly, the ship was mainly intact, and looked to have come in on its belly in the semblance of a controlled landing.
Zlatan was impressed. He doubted even the best pilots in Russia could have achieved that landing on a low-visibility mountaintop and inside a crater basin.
The Orlando was mostly buried in the revolting mud, and now it looked as if the slime was trying to claim the fuselage by growing up and over it. Strange fans, nobs, and growths like mushrooms seemed to undulate back and forth across the skin of the craft as though deep underwater and moving in a soft current.
There was a tear in the metal skin of the craft at the bay area, but unexpectedly, the front cockpit hatch was open. Zlatan had been briefed on the American shuttle design, and knew the door could only be opened from the outside with a unique NASA key, or from the inside by the astronauts.
He had no instructions as to what to do if he encountered American astronauts. They didn’t concern him, and as long as they didn’t interfere with his primary objective, they were of no consequence. But if they tried to intervene, then they would be terminated. It would be their choice.
Zlatan motioned for his men to advance. In a line, they moved forward. He and Torshin toward the open cockpit hatch, and Russlin and Stroyev toward the rear.
He shook his head, hard, and scowled – the damned humming or buzzing was becoming more insistent. It even overshadowed the incessant whine within the particle mist. But now the noise was almost understandable as if it was a language. He tried to block it out.
The slime was thickening as they neared the craft, ankle deep, and Zlatan could see it actually spilled from every opening and rent in the skin of the shuttle.
He and Torshin were first to arrive, and they eased along the side toward the open door. His hand went to a pouch at his belt that held a small flashlight, but changed his mind – he didn’t need it anymore, as his eyes seemed perfectly comfortable in the low-light conditions. Zlatan nodded to Torshin and together they slipped inside, knives drawn.
There were no astronauts, alive or dead. As expected, the cockpit was in disarray, but amazingly a few of the tiny lights still glowed indicating that some power and possibly some applications were still running throughout the craft.
At the rear of the cockpit, there were some smashed glass specimen tanks, their contents gone. Torshin squinted at the remaining names still on the broken receptacles, and read in halting English: “Bradypodidae – three-toed sloth. Theraphosidae Arachnida – tarantula spider. Driloleirus – giant earthworm. Orthoptera – crickets. Linepithema humile – Argentinean ant colony.” He snorted. “Maybe the bugs were the ones in charge of the craft.”
Zlatan grunted. “Yes, funny; now find the camera data.”
Torshin straightened and began looking over the control panels. The data should have been stored somewhere transportable so it could be rapidly recovered once the shuttle had landed. This meant the US military could get their hands on their prize before waiting on NASA to release it. Zlatan knew this also meant they probably wouldn’t need to dismantle much of the equipment. All they’d need to do is find the media the images were stored on and eject it.
“Sir.”
The call came from the doorway, and he turned to see Stroyev leaning in through the cockpit cabin hatch.
“What is it?”
“There is something you should see.”
Zlatan turned to Torshin. “Find me that data.” He followed Stroyev outside again and into the broken rear-bay area of the craft. Immediately he was assailed by the smell – rotting plant and animal matter, and something else he couldn’t identify. The particle mist was even thicker inside.
“Look.” Stroyev pointed.
In a cradle was a long piece of jagged stone. It had cracked open, showing a glowing green interior, and looked to be cooling as it gave off smoke-like vapor. Zlatan stared and saw that the vapor was actually the particle mist, and it came in waves, is if from exhalations. There was also a gray sludge seeping from it and plopping to the ground.
“So, this is where our strange mist and slime is coming from.” Zlatan felt an odd attraction to the thing.
The mass inside the rock seemed to throb and drip the ooze. But closer to it, the odor was the most powerful.
“Stinks,” Zlatan said.
Russlin seemed transfixed. “No, I think it smells … glorious.”
“Why would they carry this with them?” Stroyev held a hand up. “I can feel it; it’s warm.” He went to approach.
“Don’t touch that,” Zlatan said sharply. “Maybe they didn’t take it with them, but collected it from space.”
He snorted. “It’s just a rock … filled with hot mud.”
Zlatan went to step closer, just as Russlin’s voice turned his head.
“And these …” Russlin used his knife to lift something orange from the ground. “They’re everywhere, shredded uniforms.” He squinted at the material. “Ripped to pieces.” He looked up. “They tore them off?”
Stroyev snorted. “So, we have some naked American astronauts running around, da?” he bobbed his head, leering. “Was any female?”
Russlin crouched. “Bones.” He gathered a few in his large hands. “And fresh.” He straightened. “These look chewed.” He lifted the two halves of a skull, cracked down the middle. “I think it used to be some type of ugly monkey.”
The skull had huge teeth, more akin to that of a bear or wolf. But the cranium was oddly enlarged, deformed, and with way too many eyeholes.
Zlatan remembered the manifest. “They had live specimens onboard.”
Russlin nodded. “Well, I think maybe someone got hungry.” He grinned momentarily, and then brought it clos
er to his face and sniffed. He then shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, looking like he was enjoying the perfume. His mouth slowly opened, and his tongue eased out toward it.
“What are you doing?” Zlatan frowned.
“Uh?” Russlin shook his head, and looked confused. “Nothing, it just smelled …” He dropped the skull portions. “… nothing.”
Zlatan looked around. The rear of the shuttle reminded him of something – the remnants of a meal, the balled packing materials, and torn cloth … Then it hit him. A nest. Something was living here. Could it be the astronauts?
He turned, and tried to remember what Torshin had told him about the specimen list. There was nothing larger than a sloth or monkey.
But that skull Stroyev held up looked like neither. Had it changed somehow? Zlatan also remembered the monstrous thing that had attacked them and dragged Naryshkin down below the slime. It slid beneath the ground and burrowed up to get them – like a giant worm. He glanced at the worm specimen tank. Could it be the same thing? A creature that had somehow changed or been changed? By what?
Zlatan looked again at his men. All now seemed bulkier, misshapen. He looked at his hand and saw the fingers looked longer and thicker, and the end two now didn’t separate until nearly the first knuckle. Plus, the nails were darkening and growing more round and sharp like talons.
What would Rahda think?
He turned to the rock fragment. The gas. The smell inside the bay area was overpowering. It was sweet and corrupt like decomposing vegetable matter. He walked toward the fragment of rock in its cradle, feeling the warmth against his face as he approached.
Zlatan stood before it, peering in past the glow and squinting to get a better view. He waved away some of the mist and saw the repulsive blob, like a ball of tangled spaghetti that throbbed and wrestled with itself. Tendrils emanating from a central mass undulated softly and it reminded him of some sort of giant amoeba. His head now thumped mercilessly as he bent forward.
Zlatan was transfixed, and watched as a one of the tendrils reached out and encircled his wrist. He recoiled, cursing, and was about to lash out at it but his mind scrambled and fizzed like static.