by Неизвестный
“Only because you’re too ignorant to understand what’s at stake here!” the doctor shouted, looking as if he might come over the table at Myers.
“Then explain it to me, Genius!” roared the young man in response. “I’m all ears!”
The doctor straightened his back and composed himself externally, though his eyes blazed brighter than ever.
“As the five-hundredth dimension—”
“Excuse me?”
His frown deepening, Khresmoi glowered hatefully at Myers and refused to speak.
“Sorry!” the soldier exclaimed at last, rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Please, by all means, continue!”
“Imagine, if you can,” Khresmoi mocked his listener, “that the first and last dimensions are a smaller and larger egg existing in the same spot but in different realms. Together, they might appear as an ethereal core with a shell around it. As the two dimensions combine their essences, they birth reality after reality. Being the five-hundredth, I stand in the center of them all and make sure the other realms pass in an orderly fashion to preserve the integrity of our progenitors. Then, when only I and they remain, I immolate myself so that they can be reunited and the cycle begun anew. Should the death of this dimension spark a chain reaction that corrupts either the first or last realm, however, it would be the end of all life.”
“Dang, that sounds pretty serious!” said the soldier flippantly. “I guess it’s a good thing for us that a powerful guy like you came along when you did! Let us know when you get back from blasting that Martian canon into pieces, would you? I’ll buy you a beer!”
“Were this the space that constitutes my totality, I would do that and more! In the same way that you might wipe a fleck of dust from your sleeve, I would rend apart your atmosphere with a cataclysm of fire and rock, wiping both the invaders and you mounds of walking bacteria off this planet!” the doctor assured Myers happily. “Unfortunately, for me to maintain the soundness of my own realm, I am unable to project the full force of my power into any of the others. Even worse, I must mimic the shape of one of the natural creatures of that dimension, lest I irreversibly accelerate the volatility already at play. True, even in this wretched form, I still retain some small control over natural forces so far beyond your understanding that you would label them magic. The power is finite, however, and once it is exhausted, I will be forced to return to my realm. Had I attacked the canon in my present state, I would have only been able to kill a few of its guards and cause superficial damage to its exterior before I disappeared. At most, it would only have set the invaders back a few weeks.”
“I guess we’re out of luck then. If that’s all—”
“Hold on a minute, Steve,” pleaded Brickman, moving to block the soldier’s path. “I know it looks bad, but we’re not out of the fight yet. In the old days, I would have tried to convince the bigwigs to mobilize a huge allied force so that we could hit that warehouse with an overwhelming aerial assault. However, we just don’t have the resources for an operation of that magnitude right now, much less the ability to rapidly organize it. And the Martians know it. Their sparse coastal defenses are practically a slap in the face. Whether they meant it as an insult or not, though, the bastards have left us just enough of a gap through which to launch a small mission into France.”
“How small are we talking here?” Myers asked suspiciously, momentarily drawn into the others’ madness before he remembered they were crazy and chided himself.
“One man,” the officer stated resolutely. “You.”
The soldier didn’t even try to hide his contemptuous laugh.
“Even if everything that’s been said in this cellar is true, what could I possibly do against all that?” he said, indicating the pictures of the huge warehouse and its legion of armed sentries.
“Under normal circumstances, nothing. The Doctor has changed the balance, though, and given us a special weapon of our own,” said the old man. “It’s time. Show him.”
Khresmoi glared disdainfully at Myers, as if the soldier was not worthy of such an honor. Then, with ominous slowness, the doctor lifted his hand and held it palm down a short distance above the table’s surface. All of a sudden, there was a muted rumbling that reminded Myers of a peal of thunder rolling across an open plain. An inch below Khresmoi’s outstretched appendage, a halo of lightning crackled into being, its tiny, forked tongues biting ceaselessly at the air.
The soldier winced and raised his hand to shield his eyes. Through the stabbing glare of the electrical storm, he watched in mute disbelief as a thick bottle began to slowly descend from within the bright circle. He could make out little of the container’s contents except a dark, featureless lump. He was about to turn away when he was certain he saw the shadowy mass begin to writhe and undulate. No matter how much he squinted, though, he couldn’t suss out anything more about the mysterious creature.
As the jar’s bottom touched down on the table, there was a wild whooshing sound and the fulminations from the doctor’s hand were sucked into his palm. Instantly, the noise and light disappeared. For a moment, pulsing white spots filled Myers’s vision. When they finally dispersed, he returned his eyes to the thing inside the stopped bottle. This did little to help him identify it, though. The beast was the size of a rat and covered in a thick coat of straight, brown hairs that seemed to have the rigidity of hedgehog quills. Each one of the long, stiff strands pointed toward the horror’s rear in a flared pattern. Where its head should have been, there was only a wide, twisted horn that spiraled into a sharp point. All along the bony projection’s sides were small holes of various sizes with no apparent purpose. Limbless and agitated, the monster wriggled blindly, desperately trying to scrape its way out of the crystalline prison that held it.
“What in God’s name is that?” Myers gasped, his mind reeling not only from the sight of the grotesquery and its eldritch birth, but the realization that everything he had been told up to that point by Brickman and the doctor might be true.
“I spoke with the Kortha about what’s happening here, and they have agreed to help,” said Khresmoi, his voice solemn. “This is one of their larvae. It will give you the power to destroy the Martian weapon, but only if you cultivate it according to my exact instructions.”
His eyes locked on the squirming creature and face twisted with revulsion, Myers gave no outward sign that he had heard anything Khresmoi had said. He felt dizzy and nauseous, as if he’d been struck on the back of the head with a club. A cynical look crossing his face, the doctor continued.
“Listen carefully. For this grub to mature into a form that can obliterate the invaders’ canon, you must feed it the equivalent of seven pints of terrestrial blood from a living creature every twenty-four hours from this point forward. It must be red blood, as even a drop of Martian blood will kill it at its current stage. After its meal on the third day, it will immediately undergo a period of explosive growth, and it will seek to sate its terrible hunger on whatever is closest to it. Provided you’ve gotten it near enough to the warehouse, it will undoubtedly attack the invaders and their Nazi allies. In turn, their ineffectual attempts to defend themselves will only enrage the beast further, ensuring that it flattens everything in the vicinity that reeks of their taint. Nevertheless, the being will surely come into contact with enough Martian blood during its rampage to guarantee that it dies shortly thereafter, momentarily sparing your precious Earth.
“Be warned, though. If the creature goes a full day without sustenance, its hunger will cause it to prematurely metamorphosize into a man-sized beast with spindly legs, curved claws, and a yen for Earthly blood. Ageless and unkillable, it will tear you apart and try to slake its dreadful thirst on your gore. However, its efforts to fill itself will be as useless as a man trying to soak up an ocean with a handful of sand. Driven mad by its unquenchable desire to feast, it will spend the rest of this world’s days savagely preying on its native species, human and animal alike, while ignori
ng the Martians and their ilk due to the way it was weaned.”
“I’m sorry to put all this on you, son. I truly am,” Brickman confessed, his sympathetic eyes studying Myers’s dazed face. “There’s no other person I trust who knows the language and the lay of the land, though.”
“What’s the plan?” croaked the soldier, unable to take his gaze off the repulsive maggot.
“There’s a transport waiting for you in a field near some Roman ruins outside of Newmarket,” the old man disclosed. “It’s one of the last functioning Albemarles I know of in Britain. Luckily, the owner owed me a favor. You don’t know the pilot, but he’s a loyal member of the resistance who joined after his sister was used in a breeding experiment. You’ll leave tonight. I know that doesn’t give you much time to prepare, but you heard what the Doctor said about the slug. When you reach the French coast, some patrol or another will no doubt radio in your incursion, and the Martians will scramble their fighters. The moment you see their lights coming, you’ll bail out. Our man at the wheel will draw the ships away from you until they shoot him down. Don’t worry. He’s bitter as hell and jumped at the chance to give the green bastards a black eye, even if it meant he’d die in the process. To throw the invaders off, the transport will be filled with corpses and resistance propaganda, giving the impression the whole thing was a morale boosting stunt. Once you’re on the ground, you’ll hide your chute, cover your tracks, and start toward the warehouse.”
Suddenly, Brickman let out a strained groan and clutched his stomach.
“Sir?”
“This is it, son. I know you won’t let us down. It’s been an honor serving with you,” the old man grunted.
There was a sound like rotting cloth being pulled apart and a ragged tear vertically bisected the flesh covering Brickman’s head. As the somehow bloodless wound widened to form a grisly V-shaped gash, Myers could see the old man’s musculature and bones glistening in the timid light. The officer let out a gurgling scream that was abruptly choked off, as if by some unseen hand around his throat. At the same time, raging blue flames engulfed his body, instantly and inscrutably charring away all but his clothes and skeleton. Falling to its knees, the old man’s carcass maintained an upright posture against all notions of rationality. Its arms dropped lifelessly to its sides, palms facing the ceiling. With seemingly deliberate slowness, its head tilted backwards until its empty sockets gaped at the heavens. All the while, its mouth hung open in a soundless shriek, as the azure fire continued to burn around it unabated.
Myers backed away from the roaring conflagration, his horrified expression given added depth by the flickering shadows the feral blaze splashed across his face. No more interested in Brickman’s fiery demise than a wolf would be at that of a buzzing fly, Khresmoi stared unblinkingly at the young soldier.
“My time has also run out,” he declared bleakly. “Heed my warnings about the larva well. The fate of this cycle has been regrettably bound to that of humanity. Your failure will not only loose another horror upon your already beleaguered world, but doom the very spark of life, that which eternally creates and recreates all, to darkest extinction.”
The moment the last word left the doctor’s mouth, his body became uncannily still. Bit by bit, the color fled both him and his clothes, until he looked as if he’d stepped out of a black and white photo. Simultaneously, his form grew hazy and wisps of his essence rose off his shoulders and head. All of a sudden, apparently at the behest of some stiff gust of wind that Myers couldn’t feel, despite only being a matter of feet from Khresmoi, the particles making up the doctor’s frame were blown to the side in a sifting sheet. Only traveling a short distance before finding themselves caught in a series of whirling eddies, the motes gradually dispersed through the air, came to an unnatural halt, and darkened. Then, as Myers watched distraughtly, the black specks faded away, leaving him alone in the cellar with the being’s squirming brood and Brickman’s blasted remains.
Day One
Myers plunged into the yawning abyss below him and instantly felt the equally exhilarating and terrifying sensation of hurtling weightlessly through the uncertain darkness. No sooner had the cold night air struck him in the face than he heard the sound of several Martian ships scream past overhead in pursuit of the transport, out of which he’d jumped. He was in a precarious situation, and knowing that the slightest distraction might get him killed, he used every ounce of discipline he’d accrued over the years to stop himself from looking back at the alien craft. Unlike a normal drop, the pilot had brought them closer to the ground at the first sign of pursuit, so that Myers would have less distance to float helplessly if the one of the Martians turned around after he opened his parachute. However, if the plane had dipped too low, there was a chance his parachute might not have time to fully open and that would be that.
Focusing all his concentration on counting to three as calmly as he could, he fumbled for his ripcord while ticking off the seconds. The wind battered his face and roared in his ears, almost as if trying to throw him off. Myers grimaced through the brutal cacophony, bolstered by the knowledge that the elements had never succeeded in getting to him any of the hundred other times he’d leapt out of a plane. His hand steady, he pulled the cord at the appointed tally and felt the chute explode from his pack. Instead of the sound of it catching in the air, though, all he heard was the mass of silk flapping impotently above him. Swearing, he ran his hands across his chest, searching desperately for the release on his emergency chute, but his fingers came up empty over and over again. He knew it had to be around somewhere, probably tucked away in some fold where he couldn’t reach it, an assumption that drove his panic-fueled frustration to a new and maddening height. A strange hum seemed to flit around the edge of his perception, and his blood ran cold.
“It’s just your imagination,” he told himself without conviction, his mind already picturing the ground rising up to meet him.
At that moment, he heard the welcome and familiar sound of the parachute catching and filling with air, a noise that was simultaneously explosive and soft. Even as his lips began to twitch with the first traces of a burgeoning smile, his body was jerked to a vicious halt that snapped his head forward and then backward and sent legs kicking out in front of him as if he’d been hung from the neck. Pain exploded across his spine. A darkness thicker than the night that surrounded him crept in from all sides, obscuring the moon and its meager illumination. Myers’s ears filled with unnatural silence. With a jolt of panic, he realized he was blacking out and struggled against it, unable to bear the thought of his limp body drifting through Martian controlled airspace with ground patrols undoubtedly on their way. Nevertheless, the last thing he felt before the deadening waters of unconsciousness washed over him was his heart drumming against his sternum with the frenzied rhythm of machine gun fire.
Myers awoke with a start, his body falling and spinning round and round as if he were on some kind of broken carnival ride. Since he was still in the air, he guessed that he had only been out for a dozen seconds or less. However, the relief he gained from that revelation was short lived. His back felt like a team of horses had trampled it and everything beneath his waist was either freezing cold or numb. Worried that his parachute’s violent arrest of his plummet had broken his spine, he shook his legs and wriggled his toes. When they responded, he gave a silent prayer of thanks and reached up to grasp his risers. As braced as he was going to get, he tried to get a look at what was below him, but the chaotic motion of his descent combined with the dense gloom that covered the land made it impossible to see anything.
Too worn down to stop himself, he began to picture all the horrible ways his plunge could end: impaled on some unseen pole where he’d squirm until dead, sweeping face first into a bunch of sharp branches and having one or both of his eyes blinded, or his chute catching on the roof of a barn and leaving him hanging over its side like a present for the Martians to collect at their leisure. There were so many ways things might go w
rong, in fact, that Myers almost didn’t know what to do when his feet suddenly struck solid ground. Luckily, his years of training and experience allowed his body to work by rote when it came to anything jump related. Instinctively relaxing, his knees became springy and pliant, allowing him to soften his impact without shattering his legs. Limbs held in close, he rolled three or four teeth-rattling yards across what felt like a grass-covered field. Despite his sharp reflexes, his shoulder smashed painfully into the earth and his ankle twisted to the side with a pop that reverberated through his entire body. At last, he slid to a messy stop, panting and groaning.
Myers knew he didn’t have much time. Ignoring his injuries, he scrambled to his knees and hastily extricated himself from his pack and harness. The wind tugged incessantly at his chute, and all he could do to keep it from blowing away was latch on to the heavy bag to which it was still connected. As he gathered the billowing cloth into a harried mass, he heard a distant explosion and looked up in time to see an orange blossom expanding on the horizon. It could only mean one thing: the Martians had downed the transport and would soon begin searching the wreckage . And when they finished with that, they would start combing the area for survivors.
Stuffing as much of the crumpled silk into his pack as would fit, Myers tried to stand up, but his ankle gave out and sent him stumbling back to the ground in an awkward heap. The young soldier gritted his teeth, and dragging the ponderous bag behind him, he crawled to a hedge some fifty feet away. He gave the line of bushes a quick once over and soon found a spot where the bristling shrubs were so close together they formed a natural canopy. Small branches bit into his hands as he shoved the pack into the center of the thicket, but he ignored the pain. All he cared was that the chute was out of sight.
A hurried inspection of the area revealed a few sparse trees, one of which had a few boughs low enough for Myers to reach. Clambering over to it, he pulled himself up its trunk and took hold of a branch with a split in its end. He then hopped into the air, pushing off with his one good foot, and yanked down on the limb with all his weight. With an alarmingly loud crack that seemed to roll out over the field and into the far-off hills, the limb snapped at its joint. Myers had the wind knocked out of him as he collided with the ground. However, he didn’t slow down. Sucking in his next few breaths from between his teeth, he scrambled upwards and used his make-shift crutch to get standing again. Only then did he press his hand against the spare pack around his waist. Inside it, he could feel the outline of his canteen, service pistol, some spare magazines of ammo, a day’s worth of K-rations, and the sturdy jar that held the surprisingly silent larva. Slightly concerned, he began to unzip the bag when he heard the creature skitter. The sound made him ill, and he decided to worry about feeding it later, when he could see better.