HOLD

by Duane P. Craig

  Beth is still ten­ding to El­len for the ti­me be­ing. El­len had fa­in­ted thro­ugh the hor­ror of the who­le sce­na­rio. I’ve ma­de the best to­ur­ni­qu­et for Fred that I co­uld with his torn sle­eve. Still, the­re is a lot of blo­od, and that big fuc­king thing out the­re knows it. I ke­ep se­e­ing flas­hes of it mo­ving in dif­fe­rent di­rec­ti­ons. I think it’s fe­eling us out - tes­ting us con­ti­nu­o­usly. I got news for that mot­her­fuc­ker - I’m thro­ugh be­ing tes­ted. I’m go­ing to kick a fuc­king A+ out of the dam­ned thing.

  DAY - 83

  It was a big ass tree. It’s de­fi­ni­tely the Flo­ra ex­pe­ri­ment that was tal­ked of in Ge­ne­ral Ing­ram’s bin­der. The dam­ned thing is pro­bably the re­ason everyt­hing went to hell be­ca­use they had it ro­oted in­to the gro­und in the mid­dle of this hu­ge lab - very much an ani­ma­te and ag­gres­si­ve for­ce. With vi­nes ex­ten­ded from it as well as branc­hes, the en­ti­re thing lo­oked as big as a dam­ned Red­wo­od tree. Li­ke a Lo­cust tree, tho­ugh, it was co­ve­red with mas­si­ve thorns - the vi­nes es­pe­ci­al­ly. But we fo­und its we­ak­ness. Many ti­mes thro­ug­ho­ut the night a very bright light so­ur­ce ca­me on, and each ti­me it did, it wo­uld sca­re off our cons­tant at­tac­kers, the vi­nes. I fi­nal­ly to­ok the chan­ce at run­ning to­wards the light so­ur­ce as it ca­me on aga­in this mor­ning - a hu­ge, synthe­tic light ge­ne­ra­tor.

  Beth and El­len hel­ped me mo­ve the dam­ned thing on­to a rol­ling cart - was he­avy as hell. I al­so fi­xed the light to whe­re it was on cons­tantly - just a lit­tle twis­ting of so­me wi­res.

  What ma­de it so dam­ned he­avy was its po­wer so­ur­ce - a hu­ge cell at­tac­hed to it that se­emed pretty cold and en­ca­sed in grap­hi­te. El­len and Beth ra­ised Fred and had be­co­me his new legs. We then strol­led the long cor­ri­dors with the car­ted light un­til we re­ac­hed the mid­dle of the lab and the ba­se of the tree.

  Everyt­hing - every ani­mal or hu­man and even so­me we­ird shit I co­uldn't be­gin to un­ders­tand was im­pa­led on hu­ge thorns at the ba­se of the tree. It didn’t li­ke the light at all and to­ok se­ve­ral swings from its vi­nes at trying to smash it. We en­ded up get­ting in­si­de a hu­ge cont­rol ro­om much li­ke the one in the mis­si­le si­lo - with a hu­ge bay win­dow. The tree’s vi­nes co­uldn’t pe­net­ra­te the thick win­dow, nor co­uld it pe­net­ra­te the thick, ar­mo­red do­or to the ro­om. I ma­de su­re the light sho­ne brightly out the win­dow at the tree.

  We’ve do­ne not­hing but re­ad as much as we can of the many bin­ders in he­re full of in­for­ma­ti­on, tests and graphs of things do­ne to the tree. Af­ter all of the re­se­arch, tho­ugh, the fact re­ma­ined that it was just a fuc­king tree, and I fo­und every flam­mab­le li­qu­id I co­uld in the cont­rol ro­om, gran­ted they we­re not­hing mo­re than cle­aning sup­pli­es in a small, me­tal ca­bi­net. I ope­ned the thick do­or, and with all of the cle­aning che­mi­cals on the cart be­si­de the light, I ma­de a su­ici­de run at the tree. Beth and El­len pro­vi­ded every shot they co­uld get off to dist­ract the tree whi­le I tos­sed the che­mi­cals suc­ces­sful­ly on­to its trunk. One mo­re shot from Beth and El­len ig­ni­ted it. The tree ac­tu­al­ly se­emed to scre­am whi­le bur­ning. The fuc­ker was smart, tho­ugh, and it smas­hed its vi­nes in­to an area be­hind it that tur­ned on a sprink­ler system. Next thing I know, the­re was an alarm go­ing off. The girls and I ran back in­to the cont­rol ro­om to see that Fred had trig­ge­red so­met­hing, and he scre­amed for us to shut the do­or.

  We did so, and in only se­conds la­ter, we saw the en­ti­re out­si­de area ne­ar the tree fill up with a whi­te clo­ud. This las­ted for a few mi­nu­tes. We watc­hed as the hu­ge bay win­dow star­ted to fre­eze up. The alarm went off fi­nal­ly, and at ne­arly the sa­me ti­me, the hu­ge bay win­dow shat­te­red. We all watc­hed as the clo­ud se­emed to va­po­ri­ze. Fred had hit the fa­il­sa­fe that no one be­fo­re us se­emed to ha­ve be­en ab­le to - a mas­si­ve li­qu­id nit­ro­gen spray. We sta­red ga­zing at the hu­ge tree, fro­zen and sta­tu­es­que. Fred bro­ke the awe and si­len­ce with a shot from his hand­gun, and the en­ti­re tree crumb­led in­to pi­eces.

  We’ve be­en se­arc­hing in­si­de the lab for ho­urs, and we’ve co­me upon se­ve­ral we­apons that we can use - fla­me-thro­wers and li­qu­id nit­ro­gen guns most im­por­tantly. Fred has fo­und him­self a de­cent me­di­cal bay and has El­len stitc­hing him up.

  So far, I ha­ve fo­und not­hing in this lab that lo­oks li­ke a so­lu­ti­on.

  DAY - 84

  Of all the things to find in the lab that of­fer im­por­tan­ce, I’ve fo­und a jo­ur­nal. Irony ne­ver se­ems to fa­il ama­zing me. It be­lon­ged to a wo­man - so­me­one very much in­to the ge­ne­tic spli­cing as­pects of the ex­pe­ri­ments in this lab. Mo­re dis­tur­bing than anyt­hing, tho­ugh, are the ent­ri­es of her trips to the ot­her labs - whe­re the ot­her ex­pe­ri­ments we­re be­ing do­ne.

  The­re are labs un­derg­ro­und in at le­ast fo­ur mo­re are­as in the sur­ro­un­ding sta­tes of Ca­li­for­nia, New Me­xi­co, Ari­zo­na and Utah. We just ca­me from the exact area whe­re we co­uld ha­ve se­arc­hed for in­for­ma­ti­on on our tro­ub­les. The is­land, An­te­lo­pe Sta­te Park ho­uses an un­derg­ro­und la­bo­ra­tory in its mo­un­ta­ino­us co­re. The ex­pe­ri­ments we­re desc­ri­bed as fol­lows:

  Ca­li­for­nia ho­used the pri­mary we­apons di­vi­si­on - la­sers, so­und pul­se we­apons and re­mo­te mis­si­le tech­no­logy. New Me­xi­co ho­used the flight tech­no­logy and wor­ked along with the ne­arby Ari­zo­na fa­ci­lity that fo­cu­sed on mag­ne­tics, an­tig­ra­vity and qu­an­tum physics ener­gi­es. He­re in Area 51, we ha­ve ba­si­cal­ly the ani­mal and ve­ge­ta­ti­on tes­ting with go­als in se­cu­ring our oxy­gen so­ur­ces - the pri­ma­ri­es be­ing to strengt­hen our at­mosp­he­re. They wan­ted to ge­ne­ti­cal­ly al­ter cat­tle and ot­her ani­mals, even so­me in­sects - anyt­hing that po­sed a thre­at to ozo­ne re­duc­ti­on or held so­me tra­its to sur­vi­ve des­pi­te mas­si­ve he­at. The in­sects we en­co­un­te­red and had at­tac­ked Fred we­re ori­gi­nal­ly types of ants that can sur­vi­ve ext­re­me he­ats atop the jung­les in Af­ri­ca. The tree we en­co­un­te­red was an at­tempt at gi­ving a tree so­me way of de­fen­se li­ke we’d see of a Ve­nus Flytrap - the first at­tempts at this tree re­ver­sed the oxy­gen pro­du­cing pro­per­ti­es of tre­es and ne­arly po­iso­ned ever­yo­ne in the lab, so this last at­tempt was a ju­iced up ver­si­on of mo­re na­tu­ral ge­ne­tics. It se­emed to be a stab­le and unag­gres­si­ve ex­pe­ri­ment, tho­ugh, un­til the day se­ve­ral ca­nis­ters of na­no­tech we­re int­ro­du­ced from a small gro­up of sci­en­tists vi­si­ting di­rectly from the Utah fa­ci­lity.

  The idea was to spe­ed up the pro­cess of growth in the tree and to see if it wo­uld re­ge­ne­ra­te it­self even if so­me­one co­uld get past its de­fen­se to harm it. Tho­se sci­en­tists we­re sa­id to ha­ve be­en do­ing much mo­re na­no­tech ex­pe­ri­ments at the­ir Utah fa­ci­lity - most on cat­tle, but al­so they we­re do­ing so­me ex­pe­ri­ments on re­cently de­ce­ased pe­op­le from the area. The re­se­arch jo­ur­nal pretty much en­ded the­re. Ob­vi­o­usly, the tree then re­ac­hed a le­vel of in­tel­li­gen­ce and ag­gres­si­on that the gho­uls ha­ve.

  I told the girls that I ne­eded to ta­ke a go­od long lo­ok at Fred’s arm be­fo­re we ma­de any mo­re plans. I co­uldn’t see any type of im­me­di­ate ef­fects from the na­no­tech, but I still be­li­eved they wo­uld ha­ve to be trans­mit­ted to him from the in­sects - pro­bably just not as many. I lo­oked all abo­ut the me­di­cal bay un­til I fo­und an ex­ter­nal, por­tab­le def­ri­bu­la­tor. Fred lo­oked li­ke he wan­ted to punc
h my lights out, but I exp­la­ined it wor­ked for me. Beth was ab­le to nod qu­ite se­ri­o­usly to con­firm it for him. The girls held him down, and I shoc­ked his arm at full po­wer.

  Fred’s get­ting aro­und to cons­ci­o­us­ness aga­in. So far, he isn’t hol­ding anyt­hing aga­inst me - no so­ur words or lo­oks. It’s la­te eve­ning, and we’re go­ing to he­ad back up to the sur­fa­ce. If the spe­ci­fic in­for­ma­ti­on on tho­se in­sects is cor­rect, then they ha­ve a gre­at to­le­ran­ce for he­at and ab­so­lu­tely no to­le­ran­ce for the cold dark air of a de­sert night. We sho­uld be ab­le to get back to our truck and start he­ading back to Utah. I can’t be­li­eve we we­re at the right pla­ce that who­le ti­me. I’m ho­ping our bo­at is in go­od sha­pe. If we ha­ve to dri­ve thro­ugh that big ass city to get to the is­land, then we might be fuc­ked.

  DAY - 85

  I dro­ve all night, and had dri­ven the gre­ater part of the day un­til Beth to­ok over for me. Then, I en­ded up ri­ding in the back with Fred. He’s do­ing well, but he kept ap­pre­hen­si­ve of me whi­le I kept chec­king out our li­qu­id nit­ro­gen guns and fla­me-thro­wers. I was ho­nestly just cu­ri­o­us. Sorry abo­ut any as­su­med symbo­lism the­re, Fred.

  It was at the outs­kirts of en­te­ring West Wen­do­ver aga­in that Beth damn ne­ar wrec­ked our truck. The truck hal­ted, and She and El­len both jum­ped out of the cab of the truck. Beth lo­oked whi­te as a ghost, and El­len was scre­aming at the top of her lungs. Fred and I sprang in­to ac­ti­on, hur­ri­ed to our girl’s si­des and then be­gan to in­ves­ti­ga­te what had sca­red them so badly. It didn’t ta­ke too long be­fo­re we fo­und the prob­lem - a hitch­hi­ker if you will. It’s a cha­me­le­on li­zard, but un­li­ke any we’ve ever se­en - this one must be a di­rect re­sult of Area 51 tes­ting. This dam­ned li­zard can clo­ak to any backg­ro­und with per­fec­ti­on. I know that they can do that any­way, but this lit­tle guy is de­fi­ni­tely bet­ter en­gi­ne­ered be­ca­use he ri­vals shit I've only se­en in the Pre­da­tor films. Fred wan­ted to blast him or cut him up, but I wo­uldn’t let him. If the li­zard was a thre­at to us, then it wo­uld ha­ve ta­ken af­ter us with ease and cer­ta­inly wit­hin the ti­me we’ve be­en unk­no­wingly ri­ding along with it. I tri­ed catc­hing him but he ran up un­der the se­ats. Re­as­su­ring our girls to get back in the truck was a hard task.

  By dusk, we we­re back on our to­es and all le­ar­ning to use our new we­apons. Ap­pa­rently the gho­uls that had be­en in West Wen­do­ver we­re bo­red with the­ir sur­ro­un­dings be­ca­use they had be­gun ven­tu­ring out on the fre­eway - our fre­eway. Beth got back be­hind the whe­el with El­len as her co-pi­lot aga­in, and Fred and I ar­med our­sel­ves in the back. I told Beth to just ram thro­ugh the crowds at all costs, and she did just that. The thumps we­re lo­ud and the jolts of run­ning over bo­di­es we­re tos­sing Fred and I all abo­ut in the truck. When we pic­ked up our first strag­gler on the ta­il­ga­te, Fred was­ted no ti­me in torc­hing it with a fla­meth­ro­wer. He ca­ught our dam­ned can­vas top­ping on fi­re as well, tho­ugh, so I had to spray it with a li­qu­id nit­ro­gen blast. Eit­her way, the gho­ul was ta­ken ca­re of. We went thro­ugh that ro­uti­ne a few mo­re ti­mes un­til we pas­sed thro­ugh the city li­mits.

  Thanks to Fred, we’re go­ing to sle­ep un­der the stars to­night, li­te­ral­ly - I me­an, if no gho­uls are ne­ar. The can­vas top on our truck’s bac­kend is in shamb­les. As we are now stop­ped on a de­so­la­te stretch of high­way, we are all fo­ur stretc­hed out in the truck bed and sta­ring up at the ama­zing sight of our star fil­led ga­laxy. Sta­ring out, I'm re­ali­zing that in the in­fi­ni­te abyss that is cre­ati­on, it pro­bably won’t mat­ter to the gre­at cre­ator if our one, me­asly sign of li­fe fa­ils or suc­ce­eds.

  DAY - 86

  Anot­her full day of dri­ving bro­ught us to the outs­kirts of Hill Air For­ce Ba­se. The­re we­re still plenty of gho­uls, but the he­at from the sun had ap­pa­rently do­ne them in over the past few days. The gho­uls we­ren’t lo­oking fast or re­ac­ting sharply to anyt­hing we had tri­ed - ye­ah, I was tes­ting them. Af­ter stud­ying the­ir mo­ti­ons for a short whi­le, I star­ted thro­wing sto­nes at the gho­ul’s he­ads, and all I got for res­pon­ses from them we­re turns, mo­ans and stumb­ling abo­ut. All in all, they are dehyd­ra­ting. Fred sa­id it best in wis­hing for a go­od, hot sum­mer this ye­ar.

  Fred, Beth and El­len star­ted to arm them­sel­ves with our new we­apons, but I just grab­bed my old fri­end, the ka­ta­na.

  Accor­ding to Fred, I ha­ve so­met­hing be­yond a psycho­tic ur­ge to cut pe­op­le in­to pi­eces - that the­re is a li­ne di­vi­ding what is ne­eded and what is ext­re­me over­kill. And he­re I tho­ught that I was just be­ing tho­ro­ugh. Ha­ha. May­be I am a lit­tle too giddy abo­ut ta­king them out with the sword, but I’ll be dam­ned if I didn’t sa­ve am­mu­ni­ti­on and pos­sibly mo­re da­ma­ge from Fred and his fuc­king fla­meth­ro­wer es­ca­pa­des. See, the only re­ason we we­re stop­ped was to re­fu­el at the truc­king de­pot be­fo­re dri­ving to the far si­de of the ba­se to find the bo­at. So, aga­in, I sa­ved us from Fred and his fla­meth­ro­wer ex­ci­ted ass whi­le ne­ar the gas pumps.

  Once at the sho­re­li­ne and lo­oking for the bo­at, we fo­und that it was flo­ating many yards out in the la­ke. Im­me­di­ately I star­ted lo­oking aro­und for so­me of the flo­aters - tho­se fuc­king, Wa­ter­world, Ke­vin Cost­ner, gill ha­ving bas­tards. I co­uldn’t see any, but I knew they wo­uldn’t be slow and dehyd­ra­ted, so they had to be out the­re. My ma­in ho­pe was that they had star­ved in the la­ke and had to co­me on land.

  Then Beth step­ped for­ward. She sho­wed me the bad­ge she has kept with her all of this ti­me - her wa­ter park, wor­ker’s ID. She was sho­wing me that she was all abo­ut the wa­ter, and when she ma­de a lot of swim­ming mo­ti­ons with her arms, I re­ali­zed that she tho­ught she was the best can­di­da­te to swim out and ret­ri­eve our bo­at.

  Had the Gre­at Salt La­ke be­en as de­ep as any re­al la­ke and not so much of a big ass kid­die-po­ol, then I wo­uldn’t ha­ve ob­li­ged Beth’s plan. As it was, tho­ugh, Fred, El­len and I fo­und our­sel­ves ar­med and wa­ist de­ep in the wa­ter - wal­king slowly and be­ing highly mind­ful of our sur­ro­un­dings. Beth strip­ped down and to­ok off swim­ming qu­ickly for the bo­at.

  She re­ac­hed it pretty qu­ickly, too. As so­on as she re­ac­hed the bo­at, bo­ar­ded it and clim­bed atop to the cont­rols, she qu­ickly star­ted wa­ving and ac­ting jit­tery for us to hurry. I don’t think I’ve ever se­en three pe­op­le strug­gle in the wa­ter li­ke we did. Af­ter all of that strug­gling, we ca­me to find out that Beth was jum­ping out of ex­ci­te­ment ins­te­ad of so­me thre­at to us. Atop the cont­rol sec­ti­on of the bo­at, we co­uld see the tops of many fi­res co­ming from the city. Dark­ness was qu­ickly set­ting, tho­ugh, and as so­on as it set in well eno­ugh we mo­ved a bit clo­ser to the city sho­re­li­ne - not too clo­se, tho­ugh. The sa­fest bet was to stay on the bo­at and ke­ep the bo­at mo­ti­on­less from that po­int. Who­ever star­ted tho­se fi­res co­uld be pe­op­le we ne­ed to me­et up with, or they co­uld just be a bunch of cra­zed lo­oters. We're bet­ter off wa­iting un­til mor­ning to find out.

  I fo­und our lit­tle cha­me­le­on fri­end. Ama­zingly hard to see, he's be­co­me just as much a sur­vi­va­list as the rest of us. I ne­ver even no­ti­ced him to­day, and I ac­tu­al­ly lo­oked for him for a whi­le. I don't know which one of us he hitc­hed a ri­de on, but he's cur­rently on the ste­ering whe­el.

  DAY - 87

  I had us doc­ked at the bo­at pi­er by the ti­me the sun was comp­le­tely pe­aked this mor­ning. I was pretty an­xi­o­us to say the le­ast. I had to see who was te­aring Salt La­ke City a
part and le­aving a fi­ery tra­il be­hind. My first ins­tinct and Fred’s as well was that it was a mi­li­tary, air stri­ke, but upon furt­her lo­oks, we de­ci­ded that it was mo­re li­ke a gro­und le­vel at­tack.

  The tops of the bu­il­dings da­ma­ged we­re still in­tact for the most part, but the ba­se walls of all of tho­se bu­il­dings lo­oked li­ke they to­ok di­rect hits from exp­lo­si­ves. We we­re then de­ci­dedly on the lo­oko­ut for a pla­to­on of sol­di­ers with roc­ket la­unc­hers, mor­tars or just re­gu­lar set char­ges.

  Aga­in, I had all but for­got­ten abo­ut the cha­me­le­on li­zard un­til I no­ti­ced he had hitch­hi­ked on my leg aga­in. He re­ve­aled him­self by chan­ging co­lor to a bright red. Im­me­di­ately, a pack of ra­ve­no­us dog gho­uls ca­me af­ter us. We rus­hed back to our bo­at, grab­bed the fla­meth­ro­wers and ma­de qu­ick work of them. They we­re crispy crit­ters wit­hin mi­nu­tes. I’m na­ming this li­zard, Ca­mo - ma­kes sen­se to me, and I’ll be dam­ned if he isn’t go­ing to co­me in handy af­ter all. I grab­bed him and put him atop my sho­ul­der. El­len as­ked me if I tho­ught of myself as so­me sort of a pi­ra­te cap­ta­in, now. The ans­wer is, no, but if we do get li­mi­ted to li­ving on that bo­at, I might ma­ke her swab the deck for pic­king at me so of­ten. She’s re­al­ly be­en on me abo­ut crap la­tely. I don’t ne­ed a mot­her right now. May­be I’ll put Ca­mo on her back or wor­se, down the back of her shirt.