His palm erupts with a flash of red.
The spider turns to ash.
Doc and Swift run to him. They pick the spider’s talons from his flesh. It’s like removing fish hooks. Gordy yanks the last one from his chest. “More coming down the tunnel.”
Doc unhooks Rubin’s leash from his belt. He kneels before the dog. Rubin licks his cheek. Doc gives the husky a little bit of beef jerky he’s got stashed in his pocket and says, “Go with Tom.”
Rubin looks to Swift.
Doc hands Swift the husky’s leash. “Move ahead with Bugs. We’ll be right behind.”
Swift nods. He, Bugs and Rubin continue on.
Doc takes a drag from his cigarette. Pats Gordy on the shoulder.
Gordy nods.
The tunnel is a mass of tentacles and leering eyes. A flood of spiders. A roiling sea of angry monsters. The warmachines peel out of the dark. Grab for the men from Sugar Tits.
Doc and Gordy open fire.
54.
Fiske’s radio comes alive once he gets free of the alien ship’s influence.
Shouts. Orders. Warnings from the Spec Ops guys at Wiseman.
A voice says: “On your six, Echo. On your six!”
Another: “I can’t shake him. Foxtrot, you got a shot? Crossing you now.”
Another: “Fuckin rays.”
Another: “Anyone heard from Miller?”
Another: “Has anyone heard anything from ground ops at all?”
On and on like that.
Fiske looks out over the forest. He brings the Huey around.
There’s the Hroza in all its awful glory. A moving mountain of flesh and anger. Heading for the airport. Its eight legs stomp down. Break trees. Explosions of timber and leaves. The tentacles along its side whip out. Excited. It turns its horrible human head toward Fiske. The lower jaw of feelers jitter. Shake. The two eyes set in its big grinning skull say: I know you’re there.
Maybe the pilots didn’t create it.
It looks evil all its own.
Some weird, pissed off thing they corralled from space.
Yeah. Leaving looks smarter and smarter.
55.
Miller coughs. Blinks. Spits red. He splashes the roof of the Humvee with what he’s hacking out.
He tries to swallow. Can’t quite. Chokes on something. He inhales. Deep. Feels his ribs flare up in pain. Coughs again and a little chunk of something flies out of him.
Must’ve hit the turret mount on the way down.
Snapped a rib, feels like. Maybe a couple.
Lucky he didn’t break his damn neck.
He hears gunfire. Explosions. Roars. Vipers and a Chinook overhead.
He looks around. Dust and dirt still settling from the ground collapse. There’s a haze of the stuff. Little brown clouds roll. He sees the edge of the tarmac above. Cut off. Jagged. Like it was ripped.
In front and behind are tunnels big enough for subway cars to pass through.
“Efficient fuckers,” Miller says.
Robertson’s body lays immobile in the cab of the Humvee under him.
Miller leans against the minigun. “Shit.” The wall next to him starts to crumble. “Shit.” He climbs behind the M134. Its six rotating barrels pointed snug against the shaking dirt. Miller says, “Come on. Do it already.” His heart bounces in his chest.
The wall explodes.
Miller bows his head against the spray of rock and earth.
A burrower screams out at him.
Right into the gun.
Miller grins. “Yeah? Fuck you, too.” He thumbs the trigger. The big bastard of a gun spews bullets. Fhwip fhwip fhwip. The sound of baseball cards in bicycle spokes going a million miles an hour. Spent casings fly from the weapon’s side. It takes all of Miller’s concentration to control the bursts so he doesn’t melt the gun’s barrels.
The burrower shakes. Spasms. Hundreds of 7.62mm rounds pound it. Huge chunks of its carapace pop off.
It tries roaring again.
Tries emerging from its tunnel.
Miller answers its attempts with more ammunition.
The burrower burps. Shudders. Dies. Its split mouth lays slack against the dirt wall it burst from. It leaks waterfalls of gore.
Miller wipes his mouth.
He climbs down into the corpse of the Humvee. Checks Robertson’s neck. There’s a pulse. Faint, but there. The man wheezes.
Miller grabs for the medical box in the front seat. He needs a shot. They’ve got ephedrine tablets, but that’s shit. He needs to wake Robertson up. Doesn’t need to rub a pill down the man’s throat.
Gotta get the man back up on his feet. Who knows what’s coming. And Miller doesn’t have the strength or the means to get his operator to safety.
Miller hears moaning. Shambling. He looks at the tunnel across from the Humvee. Sees a shape blot out the light with its bulk.
“Ffffffu—”
Miller grabs a cylindrical thing that at least looks like a shot. Reads the side: EPINEPHRINE AUTOINJECTOR.
Miller says, “Fuck it.” He pops the cap. Slams the needle into Robertson’s thigh. Holds it there till Robertson gasps for breath.
Robertson clutches at Miller’s torn body armor. His eyes spin. He coughs. Close to puking. “What happened?” Then the corporal does puke.
Miller says, “Burrowers sank the airfield. Things are getting clever. Can you move?”
“Yeah.” Robertson shakes his head. Stumbles.
Miller helps him up. “Grab some weapons. We got company.”
The shambling sound gets closer.
Miller scrambles back to the minigun. He stares at the dark shape. Its bulk pushes out little streams of dust and dirt from the tunnel mouth.
The thing lumbers into the open.
Parts of it still wear a military uniform. The rest is tatters and strips from where flabby growths have pushed through flesh. The soldier’s host to one of the baby burrowers.
Miller tries not to look his man in the eyes. He knows it’ll be just like Mags. Whimpering and pathetic and so terribly aware of what’s happening.
A walking tumor.
Miller opens up. The M134 buzzes like an angry bee. Bullets tear into the tumor’s chest. Tear into the enlarged legs that look like warped slugs excreting ooze to move the body. Sacs on its mutated frame rupture and spill red striated with yellow pus. The head splits open. Vomits out dark veiny ropes that squirm and squiggle toward Miller and Robertson.
Miller shouts, “Heads up.”
Robertson sees the head-ropes. He lugs the heavy tanks of a flamethrower out of the Humvee. Sets the whole thing on the ground with a thud. Doesn’t bother putting the tank on. He grabs the wand. Hits the igniter. Hits the trigger.
He bathes the advancing horror vines in flame.
The tumor tries to retract its head-ropes from the fire. It’s useless. They’re burning. Dripping ignited gas. The only thing the tumor manages to accomplish is inflicting more pain on itself. The head-ropes slide back into the body that sprouted them. They ignite the rest of the tumor.
Miller stops shooting.
Robertson sprays the beast again. Coats it in another glaze of fire.
The tumor hisses. Sizzles. It shambles forward a few feet before succumbing to the heat and collapsing.
Robertson and Miller eyeball one another.
Miller keys his microphone. Or tries to. He pulls his headset off and looks down at the wires that were severed in the fall. He tosses the plastic. Looks to Robertson. “You got ears?”
Robertson tries his mic. “Ground teams, sound off. This is Zulu. Corporal Robertson and Lieutenant Miller. We need casualty reports. Positions.”
“Finally,” a voice says. “We got tore up pretty bad. This’s Sergeant Maisey. I’ve... Shit, lieutenant. There’s eighteen of us. Guys from Whiskey, X-ray, Sierra and Tango teams here.”
Robertson hands Miller the headset.
Miller says, “Maisey, you talked to the other teams? How many ar
e left.”
“Don’t know, sir. We—”
The radio fills with screams. Animal growls. Gunfire. Chewing. Slurping.
“Get it off me. Get it off.”
“I can feel it. I can feel it. Oh, God. My back. It’s cutting through me. It—”
“My skin is bubbling. My skin is bubbling.”
Howls of men in pain. Soldiers being transformed. More bangs and explosions.
Miller can’t zero in on any of the locations. The acoustics of the tunnels make it impossible. But the chaos is everywhere.
Ain’t just coming from the radio.
Maisey gets back on. “We been keeping off the comms cuz of that.”
“Yeah,” Miller says. “How many flamethrowers you got?”
“Two.”
“All right. Keep em hot.” Miller tilts his head toward the one at Robertson’s feet. He covers the mic and tells his soldier, “Put that on.” Uncovers the mic. Says to Maisey, “Where are you held up?”
“Hard to tell.”
“Guess for me, sergeant. Where were you when the runway went?”
“Southeast of you. Maybe a hundred fifty meters. We were making our way back to the office.”
“We’ll meet you there. And watch who you’re with. Once those baby burrowers latch on, it’s over.”
“Yessir.”
“Over and out.”
Miller exhales. He looks up at the sky. In the grand scheme of things, thirty feet ain’t shit when it comes to distance between him and the sun. But from underground, it feels so much farther.
Perception’s a bitch.
Especially when you’re in the shadow of doom.
Eighteen men left from the ground teams. Nineteen including Robertson. Miller lost too many. Guilt goes to strangle his brain. Part of him says, You never could have expected the aliens to eat out the ground. Another part says, If you hadn’t left the seismometer, you could have seen what was coming. Another part says, What does it matter now?
Robertson slides the straps of the flamethrower over his shoulders. “Where we heading boss?”
Miller says, “South. Through the tunnels. Gonna hook up with our boys.”
He looks back up, toward the sun.
The ground shakes.
Miller and Robertson spin. They watch the walls. Expect another burrower to attack.
Then they hear it.
The song of the Hroza.
Miller says, “Move.”
56.
Wile E. jumps from the back of his ray onto another. He grabs the burrower piloting it from behind. Punches into the back of its head. Curls his fingers around its brain. Squeezes till he can feel the thrashing monster’s head meat burst between his thin digits.
It’s his sixth such kill.
Wile E.’s starting to enjoy himself.
57.
Sastre says, “We got a buncha burrowers at our nine o’clock.”
Guzman says, “They heading for the ground troops?” He rotates the Viper. Dips the nose a little so Sastre’s got a better angle with the Hellfire missiles.
“What’s left of em, yeah.”
“Fire at will. Keep those cockslappers off the operators.”
The Hellfires launch. Fwoosh. They impact at the center of the centipede group. Burrowers go boom. Giblets fly up and arc back to the ground.
Guzman sees a large group of soldiers wave up at him. Their backs literally against the wall.
He strafes over the impact site.
Sastre screams, “Six o’clock. Ray! Ray! Ray!”
Guzman pulls back on the stick and spins the chopper.
The Viper shakes violently. There’s a crash. The sound of metal tearing.
Guzman tries to level the gunship. Brings it low to the ground. “We get hit?”
Sastre says, “Yeah. Broke one of our landing skids off. Other one’s hanging on. Sorta.”
“Man, that’s bad.”
“No kidding.” Sastre waits a beat. “I thought you said we weren’t gonna get hit.”
“My fuckin apologies.”
Guzman circles the collapsed tarmac. He turns the chopper into the path of another ray. He sees a burrower hunched over the thing’s back. Says, “Make that bitch explode.”
“Sidewinder special coming up.”
Guzman fights to keep the ray in front of em for the infrared target lock. Which ain’t easy. Goddamn things move like their butts are on fire. They strafe, dip and dive just as fast. It’s ungoddamnbelievable.
He thinks, If those things had guns mounted on em, we’d be toast.
Sastre’s voice is cheerful. He says, “Fox Two,” in a sing-song way.
The Sidewinder looks like a happy little rocket ship to Guzman. Shooting off with a trail of white smoke. Its stabilizing fins out. Eagerly striving to make contact with the alien ray.
And contact it does.
The rear of the ray explodes. Its thin tail flies off. Chunks of its ass and midsection break apart in gooey succession. Dripping slabs of the creature’s skin and muscle and bone tumble to the ground.
The ray spins. Nosedives. Plummets into the ground just outside the sunken airstrip of Wiseman. It screeches the whole time.
Till Echo’s Viper lights it up with Hellfires.
The ray and its awful burrower pilot die in pieces.
Alpha’s radio chirps. It’s Echo. “Thanks for your hard work, boys. Maybe tonight you won’t have to wash the dishes.”
Guzman says, “Eat a hot bowl of dicks, Echo.” He slows the Alpha Viper. Wants to go for another pass over the trenches the ground troops are stuck in. He looks down. Tilts the chopper so he can strafe.
Sastre says, “Heads up.”
Guzman looks forward.
The Hroza crashes through the trees. It spreads its eight thick legs. Bows its huge skinless mammalian skull. Shakes the long tentacles along its side. Lifts its head up to the sky.
It howls. A prolonged statement of dominance.
The Hroza voice is deep and strange. A prolonged whale song. But angrier. Bass. With ululating trebles.
Guzman sees ridges along its back. He thinks they’re the huge vertebrae of a spine at first. They’re not. They’re a couple dozen burrowers humped into the titan’s skin. Plugged into the Hroza's nerve clusters.
Like son, like father. Baby burrowers in macro form.
He says into his mic, “Bravo, Echo, on me. Target the curled centipedes on its back.”
Sastre says, “What’re we gonna do?”
“We’re gonna kill em all.”
58.
Wile E. grabs the final flying burrower.
He thinks about how best to slaughter the asshole.
It’s the first time he’s ever considered the idea.
The cruelty.
Only reason he’s fighting to keep the humans alive is to prevent the Otrok—the flytraps and the spiders and the burrowers and the rays and the Hroza—from mounting an assault on his home planet.
That he cannot abide.
And he hates the warmachines for their attempt.
His motivations at once selfish and of a savior mind.
His people are not engaged in conflict with Earth. This blue marble spinning in galactic backwaters. The humans have not tormented his people. They have not engaged in genocide like the Corrupted—the Hroza’s kin and their nasty parasite.
He thinks about the other pilots on the crashed ship.
He blasts the lower half of the burrower away.
He grabs its head and crunches it until the centipede’s brains leak from the top of its head like pus out of a popped zit.
He tosses the body to the side.
He plugs into the creature he’s taken over.
He turns his small fleet of rays.
They rush toward the Hroza.
59.
Miller and Robertson creep through the dark burrower tunnel. Light down here’s like dusk. Plenty of odd shadowed areas. Claustrophobic as hell. They can hear pain an
d suffering with every step. Howls. Some human. Most not.
Take a walk through a horror movie.
Neither soldier wants to admit the fear they’re both feeling.
Not as though it’s unreasonable to be scared shitless.
Paranoia claws at them. They halt at each noise. Turn. Weapons up. Robertson with his flamethrower. Miller with his 7.62 SCAR-H assault rifle.
Robertson thinks: I’m fighting bugs from space with a goddamn decommissioned flamethrower. I could really use a beer and a blow job.
Miller thinks pretty much the same thing.
The ground thuds under their feet. They know it’s the Hroza.
Parts of the tunnel collapse around them. Pebbles and clumps of Alaska tumble down the sides.
Miller says, “Come on, come on. I want to get to the next clear area before this thing falls down on our heads.
Robertson shifts the flamethrower straps. “I’m going as fast as I can. You try lugging this tank around.” He stops. “Wait...You hear that?”
Miller nods.
They walk backward. The sounds of clumsy feet hit their ears.
A voice moans, “Milllerrr.” A dark shape stumbles in the tunnel. “Millllll-herrr.” Out of breath. It forces the syllables. Halting and faltering. “Help. Us. Mmm...Rrrr...”
Might be wounded men back there. Might need assistance.
Miller turns on his SCAR’s tactical light.
And wishes he hadn’t.
His flashlight plays over the disfigured faces of six tumors. They used to be his troops. Unrecognizable now. Bloated. With awful growths where their arms and legs should be. Splintered bone reaches out. Tendrils flicker and spasm. One’s head’s been replaced by a beating red sac. Miller can see the crumpled human skull underneath through its translucent flesh.
They all plead.
Beg. In that lilting, broken way.
Six pathetic moans. All saying:
“Mmmilllerrr.”
“Miller. H-Hellllp us.”
“I can...Feel it. Mmmm...”
“Help. Help me. Milllerr.”
“It’s…Eating me. It’s eating me.”
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