The recognised danger of trying to tell someone to stop firing a thunderous weapon is that the same someone turns to face them, asking why! Frankly, it was considered a suicide approach and should never be tried. It must have been at least a full five seconds after the last round had left the chamber before the Gunner went ape-shit at her. She had completely emptied the magazine and turned to face us with an angelic expression of, “What should I do now?”
If the bloody woman hadn’t just tried to end my life I might have felt a little bit of sorrow for the verbal explosion she received from the trembling and knee-knocking Corporal. She never said another word as she took off like a bat out of hell, barging out through the range doorway, but only after fumbling with the lock for half a minute or more. It took another few minutes before the cowering group had the courage to unwrap each other from knotted limbs, clambering out from below the table that each suspected may have saved their precious skin. No one said a word as they witnessed the pock-marks in the sand with lots of holes in the wall above. In a strange kind of way, Scott thought that each of them secretly thanked their own particular god for getting them safely through that terrible ordeal. Funnily enough, though, he didn’t recall ever seeing that young good-looking female officer again. In hindsight, he suspected she had made such a huge cock-up of her range course she had insisted on an immediate posting before word could filter through the various ranks, sections and bars around the base, which it did. He recalled the comment made by one of his group at the range that day, a young Scot’s lad from Aberdeen. He had said quite innocently, “She wiz like a mad coo wi’ a big gun!” Scott, and everyone else on the range during that never-to-be-forgotten day thought his remark just about said it all, as each and every single one of them collapsed onto the bullet-pock marked grass in fits of laughter. She was one hell of a stupid woman who just refused to listen to anyone, especially shooting range officers and common-sense. And yet, here was Scott, faced with danger and a loose cannon called, Mike. He hoped his sense of duty would help him keep his Akay babe under tight control.
Belinda once again prompted the group forward, saying time was in short supply, snapping Scott out of his shortened daydream.
A doorway appeared around one of the bends. Scott was seen to shake his head before suggesting they check it. Belinda agreed to but Mike beat her to it. He started forwards, pressing his beloved babe into his shoulder as if he might open fire at anything that cared to move. His concentration was perfect, eyes unblinking, mouth wide open and breathing controlled. His periphery vision was as important as that of the centre so movement of his head was restricted. His progress was quiet and steady with consistently placed footsteps. Each one checking the ground for security and grip before the next was made. His time in Vietnam was hell as minefields were numerous and wide spread. It would only take one anti-personnel explosive detonation to give someone a very bad day, one that would last for the rest of an unfortunate life. He knew too many good guys who ended-up getting a leg or two blown off, arms and torso mutilated to bits, ear-drums punctured, shrapnel wounds everywhere else and no balls left. His progress stopped as he remembered his own. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” he shouted loudly through sheer frustration and the agony of knowing his family jewels were no longer worth a dime. This spurred his progress as his approach towards the doorway increased dramatically. Scott, Belinda and Phyllis watched on, standing motionless. They couldn’t be sure if Mike’s sanity had finally taken a leap for the worse, or if he had seen something and was taking action.
The door turned out to be an archway, with strange inscriptions and hieroglyphics surrounding its curved frame.
“Abandon hope all yea who enter here,” suggested Mike.
Without hesitation, they each rushed towards the opening to join Mike, who was trying to decipher the writing.
“It doesn’t say that at all, Mike,” said Belinda.
Scott released a laugh. “I bet it doesn’t.”
Phyllis moved closer to get a better view. Concentrating on what she could see in the gloom. “It’s an entrance into a biological experimental station, or something of that nature. There are several characters I do not recognise, some are very obscure, but those that I do know and understand suggest there is some kind of hospital or medical facility ahead.”
Mike gave her a quick look, allowing her explanation to sink in as his thoughts turned to the memory of his predicament regarding the sustained injury. “Might this be the place where I remember my private parts being covered in foam?”
Without meaning to, every pair of eyes looked down at Mike’s groin. He became conscious of the unwanted attention he was getting and didn’t like it. His damage was agonising at the best of times, but here it was being paraded in front of others whom he’d only just met. Scott immediately felt his embarrassment.
Turning to face them all with open arms, Scott said, “A hospital or medical facility? I like the sound of that!”
“Why do you like the sound of it?” asked Belinda.
Scott waited for a moment before replying, “Because it means we might manage to get Phyllis’s injuries fixed-up. That’s why.”
All eyes turned from Mike’s embarrassment to Phyllis, paying particular attention to her hands. She in turn realised what Mike had felt a few moments before, feeling the silent stares. Without meaning to do it, she instinctively placed her hands behind her, hoping the attention would pass. The sight of her injuries had brought the pain back, slight tears appearing in the corners of each eye.
Laying a hand on Mike’s shoulders, Scott asked him to lead the way, paying particular attention to anything he might recall from his arrival at the base.
“Hey, man. That was a long time ago, too long to goddamn remember,” he quickly replied, followed by the idea that he might actually remember something after-all should his memory be prompted by the sight of something. Changing his mind, he said, “Yeah, okay, Scott, ya got it, man. A’ll let ya know if anything clicks in.”
Scott smiled, thanking him for his efforts.
Belinda wondered if it might be possible to repair Phyllis’ hands after all. Mike’s groin area was a mess, to say the least, but was in actual fact healed and free from pain. It would be better than nothing, she thought.
“Okay then, let’s get the hell out of here and see what we can find,” prompted Scott. “Oh, and one thing more. Don’t allow your guard to drop thinking there aren’t any more of those little sods around either. I suspect there might be and there’s at least one sad git hiding somewhere who has been controlling them.”
Everyone in the party nodded their heads in agreement. Mike felt like Scott was trying to teach him to party, but remained unusually quiet. Scott had also noticed Mike had stopped his petting of Akay, his babe weapon. There had been a change in Mike’s behaviour since they first entered the Great Hall of the Mountain King, as Scott had secretly christened it. And now the reduced interest in his armament? He wondered why.
Mike took a step forwards, saying, “Right, keep up everyone. I’m on point and Belinda’s wanting us to move-it at the double.”
Again, Belinda nodded, and everyone else inhaled deeply in anticipation of a run through the tunnel ahead.
As they were about to enter through the arch there was a growing audible hissing sound. The noise got louder as Mike’s body was almost through. He stopped in his tracks, listening to it, before leaping through. His weapon was held tightly at the waist, levelled and ready to fire. The sound faded as he moved further through and away. “What the fuck is that?” he asked, looking back with questioning eyes.
Observing Mike’s progress with the noise, Belinda and Phyllis drew the same conclusion. “It is a form of static electricity, Mike. It repels any dust and debris that clings to your body.”
“Heh?” said Mike, feeling confused.
Phyllis stepped forward and placed a blackened hand into the arch. The hissing grew instantly louder as she did so. “See, it is static electricity repelling t
he dust that we have collected in the tunnels.”
“Oh, right. I got it babe.” He said as he looked at his suit and shoes. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m looking kind’a cleaner.”
Belinda said, “Phyllis, look at your hand?” which they all did.
The carbonised skin was falling off, being removed from the hand like some magic spell was being cast. The skin looked clean and new, but several wounds looked painful. No blood flowed but the reddened flesh suggested the sort of pain she had been quietly enduring. Phyllis placed her other hand through the arch and it too became clean and red. The stumps that were once fingers looked oddly out of place, making Scott think of leprosy.
“OK, the theatricals are over,” blurted Mike. “Let’s get this show well and truly on the road again.” He turned his attention to Phyllis, saying, “Get the rest of your lovely looking ass through here, and the rest of you follow her. We’ve got a mission to complete.”
Phyllis tried to look at her, ‘ass’ as Mike had put it, wondering why he thought it was lovely.
“Hey, Phyllis, leave the ass bit for me to look at. Jist you git yer li’l ol’ self through here with me... and Babe.”
An indicator blinked in quick repetition, alerting the commander of the approaching group. Without any response to his demands for the clones to return he hurriedly tried to figure out a strategy. A ship was situated not too far away, but its direction would take him past the group who were presently approaching the Control. There were no weapons at hand and the only other Greys on Mars were supposedly returning from a very long way away. He’d previously called them for support, but never received a response. Unknown to him, the message had been received and a team was urgently despatched. However, with a complete blackout of communications throughout the system, they would not reply. He was aware of this, hoping that was the reason.
The tunnel took some time to travel through, with several steep inclines and sharp bends to negotiate. It had been a while before anything of interest came to light, with Mike dropping onto one knee and holding a clenched left fist in the air. Scott understood the meaning but the ladies unfortunately didn’t. Mike’s face was one of surprise and shock as he was hurtled forward by the ladies’ combined momentum. His kneeling halt had been too quick, too fast for them to react to. Mike landed squarely on his front with his webbing harness twisting tightly and magazines pressing into his chest. His face suffered some scrapes too, with trickles of blood appearing in perfectly straight lines as if rubbed by very coarse sandpaper.
“Jesus-fuckin’-Christ almighty!” he screamed, as he raised himself. Akay was covered in sand and his hands and face were bleeding, he loudly informed everyone through clenched teeth. “If there’s one thing that pisses me off it’s having fucking idiots in my team. It’s damn-fuckin’ dangerous!”
Belinda and Phyllis stepped back towards Scott for support and protection, half-expecting Mike to lash out, possibly with bullets. They apologised as they looked over each other’s blue suit, inspecting them for signs of damage while also avoiding his unblinking stare. Mike watched them with wide eyes, but felt his flash of anger subside as they showed such obvious care for each other’s welfare.
Mike apologised as well. “It’s OK, you two. I should’ve been aware that you might have run into the back of me if I suddenly stopped. It’s my own stupid fault. I never briefed you properly. Sorry.”
Belinda was about to reply, as was Phyllis, when they overheard a telepathic message. Scott heard it too, quickly turning around to let them know. But before he could indicate he already knew, Belinda placed a finger across her mouth, telling him to keep quiet. Scott’s inability to completely control his telepathic thoughts had already caused them problems so he had to be told to remain silent. He understood what she was indicating and nodded his understanding.
The commander waited for a reply. His question was blunt to the extreme as he asked the group why they were approaching him.
“Huh, not too bright then?” said Mike after he was told about the question.
“What do you mean?” asked Belinda.
“Heh, heh,” chuckled Mike. “The ratbag that’s trying to communicate has just informed us that we’re approaching him, and also that he is scared shitless about it; enough to try and talk to us. If the individual had any kind of a wildcard up their sleeve he would have remained silent.”
Phyllis looked at Belinda, who in turn looked at Scott. “Ratbag? Shitless? Wildcard?” she asked.
Phyllis cut in with, “What in goddamned hell is all that supposed to mean?”
The two guys turned to look at Phyllis following her unexpected outburst. Belinda joined them.
Phyllis looked at each of them in turn, sensing she’d either said something wrong or horns had appeared from the top of her head.
Both men almost collapsed in laughter following her outburst and Belinda didn’t know what to say.
“What?” asked Phyllis, feeling anxious.
“Holy flaming smoke, Phyllis,” said Scott after wiping the tears of laughter from his face.
“You are definitely my kind of woman,” added Mike between laughs.
“What?” she repeated.
The commander waited, poised to hear a reply, something, anything, from the approaching group. The deliberate silence unnerved him, making him suspect the unseen bodies that marched towards him were malevolent and murderous in every possible way. Grey’s were not known to show many emotions, but the mental hell that played upon this poor soul of an alien’s mind would have weakened the bravest of the brave into a blithering fit of gibbering rubbish. Without a response to his request for backup, and the known loss of his own personnel, this leader was about to break. His increasing indecision of what to do and how to deal with an unknown enemy made him falter in his own clever decisive nature. There was nothing he could do in the Control room, he realised, so left in a hurry. He hoped he might make it to the only ship that stood idle on the ramp, lifting-off and flying to the safe sanctuary of the blue-planet. Indications had shown the group to be between him and his mode of transport, hoping the sensors that relayed the position of the enemy forces were mistaken.
With the hilarity of the moment passed, and tears wiped away with raised spirits, the intrepid quartet almost laughed their way towards what could have been extreme danger. However, Mike was self assured he was on the winning side following the clue-giving message. He’d already been up against a most devious opponent who was well versed in psychological warfare, although it had been some time before. The Vietcong had become champions in the field of jungle guerrilla tactics during the war, using mind-breaking torment to win battles when they were grossly undermanned and outgunned. The Americans had eventually learned from their mistakes, but by that time the war was all but over and done with. Mike, in his time of war, had been trained in the use of mind games to win a battle. If the enemy’s mind could be broken the battle was as good as won, he’d been taught. He knew it was true, he’d seen and done it many times. Loudspeakers that told the invading Yanks that they were murderers of a democracy where the inhabitants didn’t want them was a strategy that had been used in many conflicts. What were their wives, sweethearts and girlfriends doing while they were fighting for a government who didn’t care if they were killed? And so the war of nerves went on night after night and day upon day, for weeks and months at a time. Flares would light the jet-black sky, fired by both sides, silencing the croaks, hisses and growls of unseen animals. Mike remembered the agony of his bro’s, some would scream in mental anguish before a friend punched him into silence and enforced sleep. They were all dead now, gone, taken from their youth by a gook enemy that couldn’t be beaten. The gooks all looked like the little guys who had attacked them in the tunnels, and they themselves had used tunnels to outfox the GI’s, he recollected. The commies were an enemy that would cut the guts from a living soldier, gouge out his eyes with a sharpened stick before feeding his family’s pigs with the remains. Napalm was too goo
d for those little yellow weevils, he thought. Those little greys were out to do what was left unfinished by their yellow-skinned bro’s from the war, he considered. Bringem on, Mike thought. Bring those little grey bastards to me and I’ll finish the battle. I’m awaitin’ you, you little slanty-eyed shit-bags! Come and get me, if you fuckin’ can, you gook-faced motherfuckers!
An Alien Rescue Page 30