Stranded

by William Vitka

  Swift says, “Burrowers.”

  “Place is a goddamn mess,” Ackerman says.

  “No shit,” Doc says. “So glad to have your input on that.”

  “Oh, that’s cute. You got some problem with me?”

  “Just your mouth. Runnin all the time.”

  Swift says, “Enough.” To Doc: “There a basement in here?”

  Doc says, “Small one under the supply room. Near where the office door is. Opens from the floor.”

  Ackerman squats down and scoops up a few loose packs of cigarettes. Stuffs em in his pocket. Thinks: Not like anyone’s gonna miss these.

  * * *

  Kong stands in front of the sole remaining guard tower. The only one not destroyed or on fire. He spends a second wondering if he should climb the ladder. Could make him a target. Or it could give him a view that’ll help sort all this shit out.

  He looks around. Sees one of the fallen soldiers. Sorry bastard gutted from the cock up. The ribcage is split and hangs open. A bloody clam shell.

  The dead guy has a gun.

  Kong doesn’t.

  He doesn’t know shit about guns. Never needed to. Rare that a glorified short-order cook has to be armed when dealing with alien customers.

  But a gun seems like a good idea.

  He says, “Sorry.” He picks up the dead trooper’s machinegun. Maneuvering it off the guy’s hands and arm. It’s awkward. He keeps wishing he didn’t have to disturb the body.

  He takes the tactical vest with ammo and the belt with grenades too.

  He says to nobody, “This stuff is heavy.” He looks at the gun. He doesn’t know what it is, but he sees a safety switch and near that he sees COLT. Under the barrel is a grip. And it’s got a fancy looking sight on top. Sure as hell looks badass.

  He slings it over his shoulder. Climbs the ladder to the top of the tower.

  He sees footprints from that giant thing all over. Stomping around camp. Then heading north again. Like it was patrolling or doing some territorial shit before lumbering off.

  He does a three-sixty sweep with his eyes.

  Not much more than all the broken parts of civilization.

  He looks toward the airport.

  Says, “Goddamn.”

  * * *

  Doc turns on a Coleman lantern. He holds the Colt M1911 in his free hand. He dips his head, looks through the creepy blue glare of the florescent light.

  Ackerman waits by the top of the stairs. His chainsaw is running. Over the throttling engine, he says, “What’re you lookin for? Another way to die?”

  Doc says to Swift, “Tell him to shut up or I’m gonna shoot him.”

  Swift shouts, “Shut up, Sam.”

  Ackerman says, “Jesus. Everyone’s so fuckin touchy now.”

  * * *

  They find Mags passed out in the farthest corner of the basement. Her clothes are caked in blood. But she doesn’t appear to be bleeding right now.

  Doc touches the old lady’s forehead. “She’s warm.” Checks her pulse. “Alive. Probably gonna wanna grab some Advil upstairs.” He looks at the cuts that cover her face and arms. He points to a yellow thorn sticking from her bicep. “That look familiar?”

  Swift nods. “More burrowers.”

  “Yeah.”

  They look at the walls and the basement floor. No breakage down here.

  Swift says, “Got attacked up top and ran?”

  Doc nods. “Probably. Don’t blame her, myself. All kinds of crazy shit running around up top. Cutting people to ribbons...Tough old bird, this gal.”

  “You gonna wake her up?”

  “Gonna try.”

  * * *

  Ackerman paces the store.

  Thinks: Har har har. Fuckin Doc. Gets to rest himself and his dogs while we slog up to the crash and deal with nightmares and shit I ain’t even dreamed of. Lucky prick.

  Then he hears a woman scream.

  * * *

  Doc grabs Mags’ shoulders. Tries to calm her down. “It’s all right. They’re gone now.”

  Mags says, “The things. Everywhere. Everywhere. Tore people to pieces. Military guys were running. Shooting. Things like centipedes tearing people apart. Eatin em. Oh, God, Daniel. And there was something flying and swooping. They look like Manta Rays with centipedes sittin on em, but they fly—”

  “I know Mags. I know.” Flying things? “We’re gonna get you up and out.” He looks to Swift and mouths, She’s in shock.

  Mags screams again. “The shape. The shape and the centipedes. Things flying everywhere. Cutting people apart.” She grabs Doc’s jacket. “But they left. I heard em. Heard them heard them heard them. Left and went somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “North.”

  Doc looks to Swift.

  Swift says, “Back to the ship.”

  * * *

  Kong walks past the dogs to Gordy and Mosshart standing guard outside the store.

  Mosshart tilts his head toward Kong’s new weaponry. “Where’d you get that shit?”

  “Off the dead guys.”

  “Little morbid, son.”

  Gordy says, “Maybe, but it’s not a bad idea.”

  * * *

  Swift and Doc walk out of the general store. They help Mags through the doors.

  Ackerman sees Gordy, Mosshart and Kong. All looking like well-armed Arctic insurgents. The three toting M4A1 carbines with ammo on their vests and grenades on their belts. “The fuck? I want one of those.”

  Mosshart says, “Plenty of em around if you don’t mind looting dead people.”

  “I don’t. What use the dead have for em anyway?” He sets off to scavenge.

  Kong looks to Doc and then Swift and says, “We need to get to the airport.”

  Doc arches his eyebrows. “Why’s that?”

  “I think I found the Army.”

  24.

  The pilots watch the humans cannibalize the equipment of their dead.

  None of the aliens disagree with this tactic. Those humans will need firepower if they expect to live very long.

  The questions among the pilots become: If we approach the mammals, will they slay us? Will they hate us? Will they act out of fear or be rational?

  The small furry things with the sled-man, even those seem to want to murder.

  Nothing on this planet can be trusted.

  25.

  There are two left. Two out of twenty-one soldiers.

  Lieutenant Zach Miller and Corporal James Whitmore, a medic.

  There’d been another soldier. Now dead. And there’d been some tourist in his mid-thirties named Tim Grant who made it out too. He bought it during the escape to the airfield. One of the centipede things took a chunk out the guy’s leg. Must’ve hit the femoral artery. Grant bled out on the way, even with Whitmore working to seal the wound in the back seat of the Humvee.

  Adios, Wiseman. We hardly knew ye.

  Miller and Whitmore hide inside the airport’s office building. It’s a squat beige building beside a hangar. Not the best place to be, but it puts em in a far better defensive position than wide-open Wiseman.

  Since that place is destroyed and all.

  The scene replays itself in Miller’s head.

  * * *

  Miller watches from the roof of the general store.

  The shape lumbers toward em. It’s awe-inspiring in size and scope. It crashes through trees. Obliterates pines like kindling. Brays.

  Miller gives the order to open fire when the thing gets within a hundred meters of the perimeter. Spotlights play over it. Legs like redwoods. Mottled dark green with red in the creases. It’s got eight legs. Four on each side of a thick, crustacean body. And tentacles sprouting from an almost human head. There are more along its lobster-like rear.

  Miller thinks he sees something riding it, but he can’t tell.

  It’s too dark. The thing’s too tall. And the M249 light machineguns on either side of him are barking bullets like hoses piss water. Making
a racket he’s having trouble thinking through—watching this behemoth is enough to fry a few circuits in his head.

  Tracers guide the bullets. He sees them impact. Pocks and splashes of blood.

  The titan cries but does not stop.

  The 5.56 NATO rounds from the M249s ain’t doing enough damage.

  Miller orders his two anti-tank crews forward on the ground. Both carry FGM-148 Javelin missile launchers. He tells em to employ a top-attack approach so that the missiles will fire up and come down on the head of the beast.

  The missiles streak up into the night sky. Wink out of existence for a heartbeat. Careen. Explode with brilliant yellow-orange on the top of the monster’s skull and spine.

  Miller sees something fall off its back. Maybe the rider. Maybe a chunk of flesh.

  The massive creature roars. Changes its course and shoots back off into the mountains. Singing its sad song.

  His men cheer. Next to him, Sergeant Copper whoops and releases the trigger of his M249. He pats Miller’s back. “Fuckin hell, boss. We pushed it back.”

  Miller allows himself to smile. “For now. But we gotta get in touch with General Anderson.” He walks away, toward the radio. They haven’t been able to get through to command all day. Not since their comm equipment let out banshee wails. Time to try again. “We want tanks. Flamethrowers. Gunships with fifty-cals or TOW missile launchers. If that thing’s got friends—”

  Something swoops out of the darkness. A whisper.

  The top half of Sergeant Copper slides away from the rest of his torso. It lands with a meaty thud on the roof.

  Miller’s lips twitch. “Copper?”

  Copper’s legs buckle. His lower half joins the rest of him.

  There are more whispers. Then the sound of legs scuttling and scurrying.

  Miller hears his men cry out.

  He hears the civilians shout inside their homes.

  There’s an explosion. One of the guard towers crumbles. He doesn’t know if someone’s grenades went off or if it was a stupid misfire or what.

  Wiseman is engulfed in chaos.

  Miller shoulders his M4. He rushes down from the roof of Wiseman General. The other M249 gunner is hot on his heels. Kelly, Private First Class. Good kid with two tours in The Suck.

  He sees holes in the walls and floor of the store. But he knows there were no explosions underneath him. He holds up his hand for Kelly to wait back a second.

  He kneels to examine a hole. His bad leg makes him wince.

  The hole... Burst outward. There’s a tunnel.

  Miller mutters, “Something came up.”

  Kelly screams when the stairs next to him rupture. The private jumps aside.

  A nightmare centipede lopes from the fresh hole.

  Miller and Kelly open fire.

  The hundred-legged mass of insanity whips out an arm with pincers at the end. It catches Kelly by the throat. The young gun keeps firing while blood gushes from him. He screams as the centipede’s worm face splits open swallows his head.

  There’s a terrible sucking sound as it shoves the private into its mouth.

  Miller keeps firing. He changes his aim and puts ten rounds into Kelly. He hopes it’s enough to kill the kid before the centipede can start to digest him.

  Miller pulls an M67 frag grenade from his belt. He ducks another pincered-arm that comes at him. He rolls the grenade into the hole. Throws himself over the counter for cover. His wounded leg tells him just how pissed it is by flaring up and making him grimace.

  The grenade explodes. Miller feels giblets of gore fall on him. Sees other giblets stain the walls. It’s quiet for a heartbeat. Other than the screams outside.

  He peers over the counter.

  The top half of the centipede is there waiting for him. Not dead.

  Annoyed.

  It skitters forward. Miller throws himself back against the wall. He raises the M4. The centipede’s worm face splits. He shoves the carbine down its gullet. Stabs at it with metal. Part of its mouth tries to lash out at his hand. He drops his magazine and loads a fresh one. He holds down the trigger. He sends thirty rounds down its throat. The centipede stops thrashing at him. He drops his empty mag. Loads another. Fires another thirty into it. Cuz Jesus Christ almighty.

  He checks the pouches on his vest. Comes up with nothing.

  Kelly’s body was torn apart by the grenade. Thrown up in pieces.

  Miller closes his eyes as he checks the private for ammo. Nothing he can use. He slings his M4 and pulls his Beretta 9mm pistol. Thinks: The hell is this gonna stop? I take more powerful shits than this gun. Wishing he had a 1911 or a Sig .40 like the SEALs.

  He moves outside.

  He sees his men struggling and shooting. Sees civilians being ingested. Worm mouths opening and gorging themselves on the bodies of the fallen. Always headfirst. Always while the people thrash and try not to be devoured.

  He sees a walking flytrap approach the body of one of his men. Its toothed lips spread and a tongue lashes out. Like it’s tasting the air. Then it falls onto the body. Wraps itself around it. It struggles to close its wretched mouth around the corpse.

  Miller walks forward. Slow. He keeps the Beretta steady. There’s no head to aim for. So he unloads a full mag into its lips. The thing cries out. He reloads. Fires till it drops. Twenty-three fuckin bullets.

  He checks the body. Corporal Michaelson. He’s got M4 rounds. Four mags. Miller rearms himself. Takes a few more M67 grenades.

  He keys his microphone. “All squads. Form on me. Outside Wiseman General. All squads, form on me.” He waits. Hears nothing but static.

  Radio’s still fucked.

  Corporal Whitmore hauls ass through town in a Humvee. He sits in the driver’s seat. Private Forrester mans the vehicle’s huge .50-caliber heavy machinegun turret. In the back seat is a civilian. Bleeding like crazy.

  Miller reloads his M4. “You get my order?”

  Whitmore says, “No, sir. Just came to your last-known.”

  Miller gets into the Humvee. “There anyone left?”

  “No, sir. How’d it go so wrong so fast?”

  A centipede scuttles toward the Humvee. Forrester unleashes a torrent of high-caliber fire. Turns the skittering abomination into paste.

  Miller says, “They can’t be gone.” He keys his microphone again. “All units, extract immediately to the airfield. All units—”

  Whitmore reaches a hand over to Miller. It’s slick with red. He grabs the lieutenant. “They’re gone, sir.”

  Miller wipes his forehead. “I’ll drive. Take care of the civvy.”

  Whitmore nods. Crawls back to where this unlucky tourist Tim Grant is crying. He wraps the man’s leg. Blood spurts everywhere.

  Forrester’s fifty-cal sounds off again.

  There’s a whisper of movement. Like on top of Mags’ place.

  Forrester’s headless body tumbles down into the Humvee.

  Whitmore screams, “Go! Now!.”

  Miller guns the engine.

  * * *

  Whitmore can’t save the tourist. Blood loss. Shock.

  He and Miller get to the airport. Now just the two of em.

  They haul the bodies of Grant and Forrester from the Humvee. They check em for anything useful. The civilian has nothing. Forrester has ammo. They dig shallow graves cuz they think that’s what’s right.

  Now they’re waiting inside the airport office.

  Miller nods to Whitmore. They run, keeping their heads low, to the Humvee.

  Time to try the radio again.

  Miller gets through to General Anderson. Maybe cuz they're finally far enough from that alien crash site. He tells his boss every detail. Every horror.

  Anderson is quiet. He radios back twenty minutes later. Says there’s a Chinook transport helicopter on its way with some relief. Humvees. More men. More explosives. If they can hold out. Ninety minutes. Two hours tops.

  Miller says, “Yes, sir.”

  Whitmore taps Miller’
s shoulder. He points out the window to a dogsled and a Chevy pickup bounding over the hills onto the airport tarmac.

  Miller says, “That’s interesting.”

  26.

  Swift says to Kong, “I didn’t realize ‘the Army’ meant two fuckin guys.”

  Kong says, “I thought there’d be more inside or something…”

  Ackerman says, “Jesus, Kong.”

  “It’s better than sticking around in the woods waiting for a bunch of monsters to chew our asses off.”

  Mags says, “Dunno if you noticed, but the monsters are here too.”

  Kong sneers and grumbles.

  “Still, maybe they’ve got a radio that actually works,” Swift says. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”

  Miller’s already out the front door. Whitmore’s right behind him with a Colt M4 carbine ready to tear down the loggers if they do something stupid.

  Doc recognizes Whitmore as one of the pricks from the gate at Wiseman. Guy who didn’t want to let him in. He thinks: Shit.

  Miller says, “What the fuck are you doing wearing my men’s weapons?” He’s angry. Happy to see survivors. But he wants to rip their heads off, too. Looting the corpses of his troops. Good fighters gone. No leader ever wants to lose men. “Answer. Now.”

  The men from Sugar Tits glance around at each other. Ackerman, Gordy, Mosshart and Kong look at their feet. Solemn. A little ashamed.

  Doc flicks his eyes to Swift, who’s helping Fiske walk. Then Mags, who just looks pissed and tired.

  Doc says to Miller, “With all due respect, these are extenuating circumstances. I think you’ve seen the things running around now. My men—” He pauses at the thought. “My companions believed it would increase our chances of keepin all our body parts attached.”

  Whitmore says, “Dogsled asshole. I remember you.”

  “And I remember you. Puffed up on some bullshit sense of military authority.” Doc locks eyes with Miller. “No offense.”

  Whitmore storms forward.

  Miller reaches out to hold him back. “Hey.”

  The dogs bark.

  Ackerman’s there between Whitmore and Doc. He pushes Whitmore back with one big hand. The other is curled into a fist. He has five inches on the corporal. The logger doesn’t say anything. He just shakes his head. No.