“Millerrrr.”
Over and over and over and over.
Robertson aims his flamethrower.
Miller grabs Robertson’s arm. Shakes his head. “Not yet. Keep moving back.” He tucks the stock of the SCAR against his shoulder. Looks through the assault rifle’s reflex sight. Puts the red dot over the of the nearest tumor’s skull.
He puts a bullet through the thing’s head.
He watches the last part of humanity depart with a jerk and a spray of red.
That’s the closest thing to help Miller can offer.
Robertson lowers the wand of the flamethrower. Watches. Feels sick inside.
Miller ends five more human lives. He nods to Robertson. “The people who get taken... They can feel everything happening. No reason to make our men suffer more by burning them.
“Now torch those fucks.”
Robertson obliges.
The hulking towers of torn flesh boil.
60.
Doc’s flames and Gordy’s red beams overlap.
Spiders turn to smoky husks by the dozens.
It’s very much like conducting surgery with a sledgehammer.
Doc and Gordy march backward. They follow Swift and Bugs. They cook and blast till the flood of spiders becomes an unsteady stream. They pass over the Engineering room floor. At the edge of the catwalk, they enter another dim hallway.
Doc says, “Move forward. Make sure nothin nasty is waiting to surprise us.”
Gordy keeps his palm blaster up. Its crimson glow lights the way. Contrasts with the blue flashes from the floor so the area looks like cops are on the scene.
A spider wraps its tentacles around the catwalk. Hauls itself up.
Doc burns it.
Another leaps into the hallway. Jumps. Hangs from the ceiling.
Doc fires at it, but gets nothing. Just a cough from the flamethrower.
He’s empty.
The spider squeals. Leaps on him. Like it knows he can’t use his machine. And it’s very happy about that.
Weight of the flamethrower tanks makes Doc topple.
The spider digs into Doc’s jacket with its tendrils. It tears through the fabric with its bony hooks. Puffs of goose down fly into the air. Doc pushes against the freak’s jaw. Tries to keep that nasty biting face away from his neck.
Doc gasps.
One of the hooks cuts through his heavy flannel shirt. Then through the thermal he’s wearing under it. Then into the skin near his stomach.
Another hook is there.
It dips inside him. He screams.
The spider lifts Doc’s blood to its mouth. Sniffs and sucks the fresh hemoglobin.
Doc pushes harder. Just to keep that mouth away from him.
A flash of red burns away half the spider’s head. Its tentacles go slack.
Doc turns.
Gordy nods.
Doc shoves the hungry alien body off him. He sheds the weight of the flamethrower. Stands. Clutches his side. Moving hurts. He knows the space fucker cut through muscle. He doesn’t want to look at the wound but does anyway. A four-inch long gash he’s sure he could stick a couple fingers into.
He unholsters his M1911. Makes sure the safety’s off. Takes a step forward.
Another spider jumps onto the catwalk. He puts a .45-caliber slug in its brainpan.
Chunks of the spider’s head splash through the air.
Doc plants a heavy work boot on the remaining neck of the half-killed spider that tried to feed on him. The chunk of face that’s left is stuck in a grin. Doc smiles back at the three eyes still in its skull.
The spider moves one of its tentacles.
Doc shoots it off. The monster howls in pain.
Doc says, “Don’t do that. Ugh. I almost felt bad for you.” He spits. Reaches for a cigarette. Finds one. But it’s snapped in half. He chuckles and flicks it away. “Almost felt bad, cuz it’s obvious you’re slaves. But then you tried to eat me.”
He raises the heel of his boot. Brings it down on the spider’s eyes. The thing’s skull cracks. Its eyes burst. It mewls. He brings his boot down again. More cracking. He brings his boot down again. There’s a crunch of wet finality.
Doc hobbles into the hallway. He reaches for a whole cigarette and shows Gordy his wound. “Any alien magic for this?” He coughs. Blood pours from his side.
Gordy shakes his head. “I’m new at this.”
Doc lights his cigarette. Looks to Gordy’s palm blaster. “What about that?”
“You want me to shoot you?”
“No, idiot. Could you dial it down? Cauterize the wound?”
“Uh...”
“I don’t want you to vaporize my internal organs. I’m just wondering if you can seal this thing with some heat.”
Gordy moves the blaster next to Doc’s dripping cut. “I think I can.”
“Think or can?”
“I can.” Gordy’s palm blaster glows brighter. “Don’t move.”
Doc takes a pull from his cigarette. “I can barely move as it is.”
Gordy presses his palm blaster against Doc’s side.
There’s a hiss.
Doc screams again. He pounds the walls of the hall. His cigarette falls from his lips.
Gordy pulls the blaster back.
Doc slides down his knees. To the ground. Then: “I’m finding it very hard not to shoot you right now.”
Gordy says, “Well, keep at it.”
Doc checks his Colt. Makes sure his Henry .45-70 is slung snug against him. “Let’s get a move on after Swift and Rubin.”
“Yeah but Doc, I—” And suddenly Gordy’s sorta shy.
Doc says, “Spit it out.”
“We got like twenty minutes before this all goes south.”
“It’s already south, Gordy. Talk to me plain or don’t bother at all.”
“Fuckin—” Gordy wraps his still-human palm around his forehead. “There’s a timer going off in this ship. When it dings, all the bugs’re gonna rebel against the pilots—everywhere. And a lot of em are gonna come here. Like: Earth, here.”
Doc holds his side. “Does Bugs know?”
“He can’t not know. That’s how I know. I can hear the ship talking.”
“Sneaky blue bastards.”
“He thinks he can turn it off once he takes control of the ship.” Gordy shakes his head. “Or something like that.”
“I still don’t like that some alien prick is taking chances. Y’know, with our whole planet. Or thinks he’s keeping things to himself for some other reason.” Doc thinks: Do the pilots give a single shit about us or is this all some crap to save their own asses? A bug rebellion’s gonna kill them a lot faster than us.
Doc says, “We gotta go.”
61.
Swift edges around the tunnel. Rubin’s leash is attached to his belt. The husky’s straining hard to move faster.
Bugs is a few steps ahead. The pilot doesn’t show any alarm or concern.
But Rubin’s ready to go after something.
Swift feels the dark hallway press in on him. Claustrophobia. The pipes at his sides hum. Exhale steam. The floor under his feet convulses.
Bugs says, “Control orb very close. Be careful.”
“I goddamn am,” Swift says. His kids’ faces flash in his head.
Rubin growls.
Swift starts the chainsaw.
Bugs lifts a skinny blue hand. “Please. Relax.”
Swift shakes his head. He trusts Rubin a million times more than he trusts the alien.
Bugs says again, “Please.”
Swift revs the saw.
The hallway erupts with burrower limbs. They tear up through the floor. From the shadowed places above. They snatch at Bugs and Swift and Rubin.
Swift shouts, “Please what, dumbass? Please what?”
A trap. Of course the burrowers figured they’d be going for the control room.
Swift unhooks Rubin from his belt. The dog’s better off without restrictions.
He introduces the Stihl’s teeth to a burrower belly undulating under the pipes.
The thing screams. Yellow fluid runs from it like a river.
Arms swat at Swift. Split worm heads yawn for him everywhere.
He slices alien appendages. Spins the blade of the tree-killing machine around. Feels the burrowers’ insides splash against his boots and his face.
He hears Rubin snarl and tear at something unseen.
Bugs says, “Around bend. Then we are there.” The alien’s palm blaster goes off once. A second time. burrower limbs fall around him.
Swift flips the chainsaw into the maw of a burrower that dips from the ceiling. He shuts his mouth and pushes air through his nose as liquid pelts his face.
He shoots a glance at Bugs. But the pilot’s up and scurrying.
“Coward,” Swift says. “You made these things. Do your own dirty work.”
He wrenches the chainsaw free. Jogs after Bugs.
The floor opens in front of him.
Mr. Brain Bug emerges into the hallway. Its bulk fills the space.
Swift can tell it’s the main bugfuck from its burnt back and its size.
Rubin rushes by. Tears a mouthful out while the centipede screams.
The husky drops the warmachine meat at Swift’s feet. A prize.
Mr. Brain brays. Rears on its haunches.
Bugs is off. Somewhere.
No help.
Swift pats Rubin.
He checks the metal teeth of the chainsaw for bits of hardened burrower guts that might halt the machine’s operation. Get stuck in a gear somewhere and gum up the works. He picks some out with his fingers. Says, “Yeah. All right.”
He tells himself: Heroes fight unwinnable battles.
He tells himself: Heroes die.
So fuck it.
He and Rubin charge the master burrower.
62.
Miller and his men put their backs to the wall. They dig in. The Wiseman Airport office and the garage are right behind them. At ground level. He’d give just about anything to be higher up. To be able to fire down into this pit of misery. But that ain’t gonna happen.
The Hroza trumpets overhead. Vipers and rays soar toward it.
Pants-shittingly scary as the Hroza is, Miller’s more concerned with the boiling mass of burrowers. Squirming and worming and roaring and charging the nineteen soldiers hoping to stay alive.
Christ.
He prays for a straight rush attack. None of the under-their-feet fuckery that sank the tarmac.
Miller bellows, “Hold the line.” He keys his headset. Talks to the two fifty-cal machine gunners still atop the Wiseman office building. “Don’t be stingy with the ammo. Let fly when you’ve got a target. You can see farther than we can.”
He and the soldiers recovered two of the Humvees and their glorious M134 miniguns. They parked them snug against the dirt wall. Miller had hoped to use the vehicles as stepping-stones up to the surface.
They still came up fifteen feet short.
Now they Humvees are stationary murder turrets.
Miller pounds the hoods. He’s got a flame unit assigned to each of three tunnels: Front, left, right. Five men with assault rifles behind them. Then the Humvees.
If any of the positions are overrun, they’re screwed anyway. So Miller’s not bothering with further tactics.
He hears the fifty-cals open up.
He also hears the sound of a thousand scuttling legs. A noise like sizzling bacon.
Miller brings his SCAR up. Says into his headset, “Who’s got eyes? Where are they?”
His roof team sounds off, “Everywhere. Seventy meters and closing.”
Miller has an urge to say something like, It’s been an honor serving with you all. But that’s trite. And stupid. And fuck Hollywood anyway.
What commanding officer actually does that?
His men know what they’re into.
“Contact,” one of the operators yells. He unleashes a thick, fiery tongue of fuel from his flamethrower. Part of the dirt wall catches and stays lit. The flames twist and sway as a cold breeze blows. Five men toting assault rifles move to support. Their assault rifles thunder. A burrower thrashes fifty meters down a tunnel in front of the group.
The tunnels come alive.
burrowers stream out.
The M134s add to the din. Rotating barrels and hellfire. They turn the emerging burrower threat into juicy pulp at an enthusiastic six thousand rounds per minute.
There’s no cajoling. No curses or cries of dominance.
No time for that.
It’s chaos glimpsed in stutters.
Miller pulls the trigger on his SCAR. Sends five 7.62 rounds into the scrambling split worm mouth of a burrower that has one of his men by the leg. Flaps of the thing’s face shake and fall apart and hang like rags. An M134 tears it apart. It flops down dead.
The soldier on the ground does a one-eighty and brings his own rifle up to cover another man who’s reloading.
Robertson takes a knee to stabilize himself. He blankets the maw of the right tunnel in flame. Catches one of the burrowers with a blast. The monster tumbles to one side. Gunfire pops into its burning body. Robertson grins when the bastard’s insides boil and leak out bullet holes. He sets another burrower ablaze. Then another. The men behind him solidify their targets. They keep their ammo going where it’s useful.
“Out,” Robertson shouts. He retreats a few steps to rip the empty tanks from his back.
Other soldiers fill the gap.
Robertson brings his HK417 to bear.
Miller sees the flame units at the front and left stop as well. He doesn’t need to tell the troops to provide cover fire. What he does say is: “Concentrate all fire. Nobody goes one on one.”
He moves to reinforce the left side. Empties a magazine into the face of a burrower that started coming to the surface next to him. He reloads. Puts another ten rounds into it for good measure.
A burrower slips between the three squads. Dodges the M134s. Grabs a soldier by his ribs and starts shoving it into its open mouth. Face first.
The soldier screams.
Miller and Robertson pump bullets into the burrower. One mag. Two. Till it drops.
They grab the operator’s legs. Start to pull him out.
The trooper’s been digested from the chest up.
Miller digs the man’s dog tags from the soup of his body and moves to put more bullets at the frontline.
63.
Fiske watches an airshow of rays plow ahead of the gunships toward the Hroza.
It’s a fight he’s glad he’s not a part of.
He looks down and sees a mass of soldiers fighting below. Stemming the tide of a burrower flood. Flames and the gunfire. Right in the sunken chunk of Wiseman, just before the office.
Fiske wishes he had a co-pilot.
He levels the Huey. Takes a chance at the controls. Unbuckles his restraints. Leans out to look for a rope ladder. Something he can drop.
He feels the chopper dip and lose altitude. “Fuuuuck.” He elevates. Levels the craft again.
Fiske knows he saw a goddamn ladder in here. He knows it.
He brings the Huey up. Two hundred feet. Three hundred to be safe.
Yeah, safe. Unless a strong headwind catches you and then it’s goodbye greenhorn.
He scrambles outta the cockpit again. Grabs a ladder from a kit behind the bulkhead. Runs back to the controls. Brings the ship up. Runs back to tighten the ladder on moorings on the Huey’s right side.
The wind hits.
He trips over himself. Doesn’t bother with a seatbelt. Jerks the stick against the gust. The tops of the trees get uncomfortably close.
Fiske says, “Son of a dick.”
And brings the Huey in over Wiseman.
64.
Swift sees his kids in his head. Just little flashes.
65.
Robertson feels the burrower pincers enter him.
Feels h
imself lifted up off the ground.
He puts the barrel of his assault rifle into the burrower’s mouth.
Pulls the trigger.
Dies hoping he at least killed the cocksucker.
66.
Doc hears Rubin growl. Bark. Bite.
He hears the chainsaw. Hears alien and human voices scream behind the bend of the tunnel.
Doc shouts: “Swift? Rubin?” His heart bounces around his chest. His big Henry repeater in his hands, ready to punch a hole in anything.
He and Gordy see monster blood on the walls. Yellow and thick. It drips down the pipes of the industrial hall.
They see Swift’s body. Lying broken. One side of his head’s coated slick red. His left foot rests at a terrible angle. The pinky and ring fingers on his right hand are gone.
He’s surrounded by burrower carcasses.
The Stihl idles on the ground.
Gordy kneels next to the site manager. “Jesus.”
Doc says, “He alive?” Then shouts after his husky: “Rubin. Fuck.” Doc hisses. Watches the hall from behind the sights of his rifle. “Where’s that goddamn dog...”
Tom’s chest rises and falls with ragged breaths. “Bugs are assholes.”
Gordy grins a little. “You’re hard to kill.” He uses his palm blaster to seal Tom’s bleeding wounds while the site manager grunts and moans and cries against the pain.
Swift says, “Rubin. Only reason I ain’t dead is that dog. He—”
Gordy stops for a moment. Tilts his head like he’s listening for something. “The big bug. Mr. Brain.”
“Yeah. Rubin was a way bigger threat than I was. Big bug went tearing after the husky.”
Doc rubs his face. Says to Gordineer: “Get us to the control room. Help me find Rubin. And keep your shit together. That big burrower’s still around here somewhere.” He picks up the chainsaw. Chunks of alien meat hang from its metal teeth. “Tom you stay—”
Tom coughs. “Yeah, I ain’t goin nowhere.”
Doc pats Tom’s shoulder. Gives it a good squeeze. “Almost done.”
Gordy unslings the Remington 870 he hasn’t even bothered using. Hands it to Swift. “Just in case.”
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