Stranded

by William Vitka

  Doc reaches into the Huey. He unbuckles Rubin. Attaches the dog’s leash to his belt. If Doc’s gonna use the flamethrower, he needs both hands.

  Swift jumps into the snow next. He raises his Browning. Looks over the area. There’re wounded burrowers and spiders everywhere. Dying slow. He considers shooting em. Decides against it. He likes the idea of letting the things suffer.

  Gordy and Bugs hop out.

  Doc slams a palm against the side of the Huey.

  Fiske nods. Shouts, “You guys think you can handle it?”

  Doc cocks an eyebrow. “No.” Then, quietly, “Idiot.” He coughs. “Get somewhere warm.”

  “Oh, it’ll be real warm at Wiseman.”

  Fiske and the Huey rise into the sky.

  Rubin barks as the top half of a burrower claws its way toward him.

  Doc yanks on the leash.

  Rubin backs down and takes his place behind Doc.

  Doc shoots a quick jet of flaming fuel into the burrower’s face. It mewls. Roasts. The thing’s juices boil before they hiss out as steam.

  Doc lights a cigarette. “So are we doin this or what?”

  The others look across the battleground.

  The stumbling figures of the flytraps envelop bodies in the distance. A few pathetic burrower survivors inch their way through the snow.

  It’s all so quiet.

  The silence is awful.

  The men look up at the ship. No longer broken. Floating. They’re fleas next to it. An actual goddamn flying saucer. Pulsing blue. With a yellow eye at the center.

  Even the pilot is awed. “Have not seen the Cukr’Prsou since space dock. Long time ago. Perfect then. Perfect now.” He reaches up to touch the craft. It hovers just beyond his reach.

  Bugs shakes his head. “Have to take it back.” He taps the blaster at the center of his palm. Its glow shifts from blue to yellow. He reaches out to the ship. A thin filament of energy glides up and locks around a circular bit of metal that looks like a manhole cover.

  Bugs flips his wrist.

  The circle of metal opens.

  Swift says, “What’re the chances they all left the ship to attack the airport.”

  “Real slim,” Doc says.

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  Bugs says, “Fifty-seven biological signals on board ship at present time.”

  Swift says: “That means you’re going first, Bugs.”

  * * *

  Gordy hears the spacecraft talking.

  He watches the manhole cover on the ship rotate open like an iris. A blue translucent tube slides down. Bugs steps into the light. He’s elevated up.

  Doc next. Then Swift.

  Gordy takes last place. Not cuz he ain’t eager. He is. He’s excited to see the pilot ship. But he’s caught up in listening. He knows he’s hearing the same thing Bugs is. The voice of the Cukr’Prsou.

  A timer somewhere in the ship is preparing to sound an invasion beacon.

  A buzzer that says: Earth’s up for grabs. Come get it. And not just that. The alarm will be directed at the rest of the warmachines scattered across the universe. A signal to start their nasty revolution.

  Intergalactic fucko.

  49.

  The spiders scream and stream from the forest north of the airport. They lope along the ground. Dark legs and tentacles propel them.

  They leap for Humvees. For the soldiers inside.

  Unlike Wiseman, there ain’t no small arms fire here.

  The whole world’s going, boom, boom and ratta-tat-tat.

  M134 minigun turrets atop the Humvees spew bullets.

  Vipers and Chinooks let loose with rockets.

  High-caliber hell chops the spiders into chunky bits. Dozens of em emerge from the line of trees at the edge of the airport. They’re torn apart. The creatures tumble into a grinder. An insectoid Omaha Beach.

  Miller’s men don’t give em an inch.

  Flamethrower units let fly with streams of burning death dozens of feet long.

  The spiders burst into flames. Flail their burning limbs. Some’re caught mid-air. They pinwheel to the ground. Dying fireworks.

  Some do get through.

  A spider slams against Miller’s windshield. He winces. But he doesn’t hit the brakes. He turns the wheel so hard he thinks he’s gonna flip the Humvee. The spider stays latched on with its tentacles. Sways to one side. Cartoonish. Stretched. It centers itself. Glares in at Miller with those seven weird eyes.

  Miller mutters. “Piss balls shit-Christ.” He brings his window down. Frees his Beretta from its holster.

  The spider reaches a hooked tendril in and rakes his chest. His body armor protects him. A little. The Kevlar’s just enough between his skin and the alien. Hooks slash his face. Draw a three-inch gash. The spider pulls its tentacle back out to lick Miller’s blood.

  “Fucker,” Miller shouts. He sticks his left arm out the window. Fires four times into the spider’s head.

  Its skull pops like a melon.

  Miller turns on the windshield wipers.

  His headset chirps. It’s Chinook Foxtrot team at the center of the airfield: “Lieutenant, we got centipedes hitting east and west. Standard flank. Not a lotta resistance. Maybe testing the perimeter.”

  Miller tells his operators on the ground: “They come up under our feet, too.”

  He talks to his Viper teams: “Charlie, Echo, how you doing?”

  “Enjoying the breeze,” Charlie says.

  “Fine day,” Echo says.

  Miller brings the Humvee to a stop. He grabs some gauze from the medical kit in the seat next to him. Presses it against his face. Winces. Sprays it with a disinfectant-sealant. “Fuck knows what kinda germs those things carry.”

  He taps his gunner, Corporal Michael Robertson. The trooper ducks down from his M134. Miller replaces him. Brings binoculars up to check which side needs reinforcing.

  Miller sees Humvees and flamethrowers on both sides hosing the bugs down. Gunships above paint the circular front line with doom. “This is too easy.”

  “Agreed,” says Robertson. “Can’t tell if we should be happy about it or not.”

  “I’m thinking not.”

  No. The Hroza hasn’t reared its head. Yes. That’ll be a game changer. But still... Should be tougher than this. The aliens aren’t pushing in. They’re engaging at the edges of the airfield. Why would they...

  It all dawns on Miller at once.

  He remembers the words he spoke a moment ago.

  Burrowers.

  He never should’ve left the seismometer.

  The ground beneath the Humvee buckles. Disappears.

  Fuckin bugs ate the floor out from under them.

  The entire goddamn tarmac of Wiseman Airport disintegrates. Asphalt and rock and dirt fall down down down. Twenty feet. Thirty.

  Whole place becomes a giant pothole.

  50.

  Whitmore and the dogs flinch.

  Feels like an earthquake hit.

  “It’s all right,” Whitmore says. “Nobody panic.”

  Like the dogs give a shit what he says.

  Machinegun placements roar outside.

  51.

  Guzman’s radio goes from quiet to fuckall. A chaotic smattering of voices:

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “You see that?”

  “Airport just caved in. Whole place. Earthquake?”

  “Fuck fuck fuck.”

  “Ain’t no earthquakes up here, idiot.”

  “Actually, there’s pretty fuckin severe fault lines this far up.”

  “Shut up. That wasn’t no earthquake. Buildings are still standing. It’s just the tarmac that went down.”

  “Keep your shit together.”

  “Supply Chinook went up.”

  “How many onboard?”

  “Where’s the lieutenant? Where’s Miller?”

  “They’re in the ground. They’re in the goddamn ground.”

  “Who the fuck is?”
/>
  “All of em. Ground ops and the bugs.”

  “Oh, God. Jesus Christ. I need help. I need help!”

  “Who is that?”

  The radio’s filled with the sound of chewing. It’s impossible not to hear.

  Sastre says, “Got rays incoming.”

  “Perfect,” Guzman says.

  Wile E. knocks blue knuckles against the cockpit glass. He points up.

  “I know, I know,” Guzman says. “Fuckin alien. Every pilot right now is taking evasive maneuvers.” He jerks the gunship up. Brings it hard right.

  Sastre finds the closest ray. Aims. Opens fire.

  Wile E. slams the cockpit glass. Hard enough to splinter it. He shakes his head at Sastre. Looks to Guzman. Points up, again. Then points down toward the closest ray.

  Guzman stops rotating the chopper. He brings it level. Then elevates.

  There’s a ray banking under them.

  Wile E. taps the glass one more time.

  Salutes.

  And jumps.

  Sastre says, “Uhh... That was certainly a thing.”

  52.

  Earth air feels wonderful.

  Cold. Fast.

  Wile E. watches his target. Knows he timed it perfectly.

  Such sweet murderous precision.

  He’s just waiting for the burrower on the ray’s back to realize it.

  Wile E. brings his knees up.

  The burrower looks up with a what-the-fuck face.

  Wile E. kicks out. His feet crunch into the burrower’s chest. The monster’s chitinous exterior can’t handle the blunt impact. Cords of wet ropey insides explode. Wile E. shoves his palm blaster under the burrower’s mouth. Unleashes a beam of blue. The top half of the mad creature turns to dust.

  The pilot pushes the rest of the carcass off the ray. He grabs wires dangling on the back of the creature’s skull. He attaches the flyer’s biomechanical interface to his palm blaster. Pats the flyer on its leathery side like a dog.

  He takes control.

  The ray feeds him information. Rapid amounts.

  It tells Wile E. that it’s glad the centipede is gone. Tells him it’s glad he’s now in control.

  It tells him the burrowers are dicks.

  Or the alien equivalent of that.

  Wile E. pats its side again.

  They barrel after another ray. One that’s moving to flank the Alpha gunship.

  Wile E. and his ray cut across the enemy’s nose. The pilot blasts the burrower.

  The newly-freed ray turns to follow Wile E.

  Ten more, the Wile E. thinks.

  53.

  Swift’s boots clang in the cramped alien corridor. He slings his Browning. Brings Ackerman’s Stihl up. He’s betting the blade’ll be better than the rifle, given how tight the space is. These stinking industrial halls.

  He hates em. Hates the condensation along the alien pipes. Hates the walkway he treads along.

  Fuck this ship.

  * * *

  Doc shortens Rubin’s leash. He nudges Bugs. “You tell me where to go. But let the flamethrower take point.”

  Bugs nods.

  Doc inches ahead.

  The hallway’s thin and tall. Dark. Blue bulbs blink along the way. Doc’s standing on something that looks like steel but can’t be. The walls pulse. Whole place seems to shudder around them.

  Bugs says, “We are walking through engineering section. Leads to control room.”

  Doc says, “Yeah, well, I’ve seen this movie before.”

  A gout of steam hisses. Hits Rubin’s snout. The dog whimpers for a second. Shakes his head. Licks his chops. Carries on.

  Doc rubs the husky. Asks Bugs, “How hot is that?”

  Bugs says, “Try not to get hit by it.”

  Doc grunts.

  * * *

  Gordy hears something behind him in the tunnel.

  Ain’t the nails-on-metal sound of the burrowers. It’s quieter. A gentle slopping.

  He whirls. Holds his palm blaster up.

  Nothing there.

  Yeah, right.

  He walks backward. Keeps his eyes trained on the dark and what might be lurking in it.

  The blue lights in the floor flash.

  Little sparks of lightning in the storm.

  * * *

  The hall ahead of Doc becomes a suspended walkway. He squints into a cavernous space that yawns below and around. There’s faint yellow lighting under his feet. He hears machines whirring. Clicking. Between those metallic noises, something squishy and organic. He waits for his eyes to adjust.

  Shapes come into focus.

  Rubin growls.

  Doc says, “What is this place?”

  Bugs’ palm blaster pulses.

  The faint yellow lighting flares then turns blue.

  Bugs is unfazed. He didn’t do it, but he knows what’s coming. Like this is all perfectly normal. Predictable. For him, it might be. “I tell you. Engineering section.”

  Swift looks down. “I thought you meant this is where the engines might be. Or generators. Equipment. Not...”

  The shapes below churn. The lights brighten.

  Doc’s ears soak in the sound of biomechanical insanity. A symphony of flayed flesh. Meat hammered by pistons. Stabbed by needles. Eviscerated and reborn.

  Animals screech from within rows of egg-shaped, transparent containers below. They move in a haze. Parts are removed and replaced.

  The factory floor here’s bizarrely clean. Shiny.

  Considering the abominations taking place.

  Doc counts thirty egg rooms. Each about ten-by-ten. Then double the height.

  He watches one of the spiders get hacked apart inside a clear egg. Its nine “natural” arachnid legs sheared off by lasers. A robotic arm dangles nine muscly tentacles. They’re wet. Glistening. Other arms place them around its body. The laser returns and grafts the new appendages in place. Stamping pistons punch bony hooks into the pads of the tentacles.

  A large needle slides out from the egg wall. It punctures the spider’s abdomen.

  The spider wakes with a jolt. Stands, wobbly, on new pseudopods. The seven eyes in its head rotate. It examines itself. Screams. Mad.

  Doc thought the creatures had been screaming cuz they were in pain.

  He realizes it’s cuz they’re aware of what the fuck’s been done to em.

  He sees it happening to a burrower down the line. A massive centipede being merged with a worm. Split face hanging open. The centipede’s spiky legs rearranged and mounted on along it. Pincer arms melded into place.

  The spider and burrower thrash in their egg prisons.

  Doc says, “No wonder they wanna fuckin murder you. I would too.” He glares at Bugs. “Shut it down.” He points the flamethrower.

  “Cannot. Not in control of the ship. They are.” The pilot nods to a trio of burrowers.

  The monsters walk in a V-shape between the clear medical chambers. The biggest one’s flanked by two smaller ones. Mr. Brain Bug and his Yes Men.

  The trio stops at an egg. Press their pincers to the see-through material. A yellow gas fills the operating room. The warmachine calms. The egg opens. The new spider recruit marches out. It pauses while the burrowers examine it. Then it keeps on marching. Out to wherever the Mr. Brain Bug sends em.

  Swift says, “The hell’s going on?”

  Gordy says, “Pilots use somethin they call a neural harness to control the warmachines. Little thing that goes inside the brain. Hooks em up to a generator. The harness suppresses independent impulses. Makes the bugs zombies. So the pilots can tell the damn bugs to do anything. Get in line. Fight. Die.

  “The harness generator was destroyed in the crash. These guys obviously didn’t repair it. And they removed the implant process from the, uh, assembly line. Those three big motherfuckers gotta be in charge. The gas or spray or whatever’s some organic form of the harness. Nasty bastards are still zombies. But they’re gettin different orders.”

  Swift and Do
c look to Bugs.

  The pilot nods. “The Alpha. Was excellent fighter.”

  Swift says, “This Frankenstein shit isn’t working out for you.”

  “Do not understand reference.”

  Doc lights a cigarette. Thinks for a second. Scratches Rubin behind the ears. Says, “Fuck it. We’re cookin em.”

  He brings the flamethrower to bear. Hits the igniter. Aims down at the monster factory. There’s a fwoosh. A blast of hellish heat. He paints the cavern with fire.

  It’s a massacre.

  None of the men feel bad in the slightest.

  Bugs doesn’t stop em.

  Doc’s glad for that. He keeps time in his head. Stays on the trigger just a moment. Then another moment. Then another. He tries to preserve the precious fuel as much as possible. Keep the burn controlled.

  He nails the Yes Men-burrowers with a blast. They go up in flames and flail. They fall. Try to crawl. Doc smirks when they howl. Pulls on his cigarette. He lays fire on Mr. Brain Bug, but only grazes the beast’s back.

  Mr. Brain Bug skitters off. Scurries on his multitude of legs.

  Swift shoots at the burrower leader. The BAR’s heavy bullets rip three holes in it. But the thing keeps running. Down between the egg rooms. Up a wall.

  Mr. Brain Bug disappears into a shaft.

  Doc ignores the escape. Keeps torching the rest of the wretched factory floor. He and Swift burn or gun down everything that’s got more’n two legs.

  spiders emerge from their melting prisons. They bray and cry and fall to the hellfire.

  Doc puts the flamethrower on a nursery filled with baby burrowers. He turns it into a funeral pyre. Thinks of Kong and Mags and Mosshart and Ackerman. The little shits pop yellow-green goo when the heat hits em.

  Swift hammers monster after monster with .338 rounds. They all look lost. Confused. Swift doesn’t give a shit. He’s glad when their heads rupture and their hearts stop.

  Doc stops. Nods to Swift.

  There’s nothing left alive below.

  Rubin sits. Content. Licking his chops. He watches the display.

  They hear Gordy shout, “Goddamn.” A spider latches on to him. Digs its tentacles into his chest and back. He struggles against it. Fights to push the freak’s snapping jaw away from his neck.