Warbirds of Mars: Stories of the Fight!

by Неизвестный

  With obvious apprehension, he slid the bag to the right and settled it against his hip. He didn’t like having the monster on his person, but there wasn’t a better place for it. Trying to take his mind off the horror, he glanced up at the stars. Between them and his general sense of the location where he’d bailed out, he could only approximate his location. Nonetheless, he was confident in his knowledge of France’s geography, and he figured if he started in a northeasterly direction, he’d eventually run into something familiar that would allow him to get his bearings. Best case scenario, he’d still have to make at least fifteen miles a day to reach Rouen in time. Leaning against the branch he’d secured, he limped forward and hoped that he wouldn’t find himself in a situation where running was the only thing that could save him.

  As dawn approached, the countryside fell under the spell of a thick mist as high as Myers’s waist. Hobbling along, he could almost imagine he was in another time, one unmarred by the ravages of war. Packs of gray clouds, so low he wondered if he could touch them, lazily crossed his path. He neither saw nor heard any other creatures except for the flocks of birds that sat in the trees along his route, their singing so bold and joyous, it was as if they had inherited the Earth. The air was sweet with the scent of flowers and wild grasses that reached Myers’s nostrils by way of gentle, balmy breezes. The best was yet to come, however. By mid-morning, the fog had burned away, revealing the treasures it had tried so hard to conceal: idyllic fields as far the young soldier could see, each one painted a different verdant shade.

  An hour later, he came across an intersection of provincial roads that he recognized, a discovery that allowed him to determine his exact location on his mental map of the region. Additionally, he recalled that the topmost path in the cross would bring him within a stone’s throw of Rouen’s outskirts. So that he would have ample time to hide if he spotted someone coming, he avoided the dirt road and instead tramped his way through the meadows of tall, unimpeded grass that followed alongside it. However, with his ankle twisted, even what should have been a relatively easy stroll was rough going. His improvised crutch bit into the soft skin under his arm every other step and not even the act of wrapping his jacket around its forked head lessened his discomfort.

  Around noon, his chest heaving and hair plastered to his forehead by acrid sweat, he made camp by a small stream. Soaking his red, tennis ball-sized ankle joint in the cool water, he took a few swigs from his canteen and ate half his breakfast ration. His eyes felt swollen and grainy, as if he’d been staring into a hot breeze coming off a desert strand for the last few hours. The only part of his body that didn’t ache like it had been stomped by brutes in jackboots was his right arm. He lay back on the soft pasture and closed his eyes, telling himself it would only be for a minute. The sunlight played across his sticky skin with warm fingers, massaging away his aches. Suddenly, a memory of his wife pushed aside all his other thoughts. It was from the day he had shipped off. She’d worn her best dress and had done her hair and makeup how he liked it. All the same, she was a bad liar, and he’d seen all her fear and sadness in her big, green eyes. She’d smiled for him anyway, though, not wanting him to go off with worry in his heart. Myers reminded himself that if he fell asleep now, she wouldn’t have any future at all. With a Herculean effort, he pried his eyelids apart, sluggishly pulled himself together, and resumed his trek.

  To try to bolster his resolve, he reminded himself that there was a small farm up the road that he would reach just before nightfall, and he promised himself would go no further that day. Nevertheless, the short rest he’d taken seemed to have put a fresh edge on his agonies. His mind immediately retreated from the pain, reducing his perception of the once-grand vistas on every side to a palette of dull, nebulous smears. All he could do to keep going, Myers dropped his eyes to the ground, focusing on advancing one manageable patch of land at a time, instead of the thousands that awaited him. In a veritable fugue, he slogged ever-forward without any conception of time until the sun dipped below the tree line and long shadows began to swim around his legs.

  Expecting to see the farm, which had become a desperate symbol of respite for him, he lifted his gaze and then, brow wrinkling, searched around drunkenly. Not only was the demesne he longed to see nowhere to be found, but using his current location as a measure, he calculated that he was at least another hour away from it. Devastated, he resumed his arduous journey, his loss of morale apparent in his drained face and worsening gait. He’d only gone a quarter of the remaining distance, though, when he was distracted by the sound of the larva’s head tapping once against the jar in his pack. As there was still plenty of time to nourish the creature, he ignored its movement as incidental. However, the noise returned a short while later and continued at intermittent intervals thereafter. The longer the rapping went on, the more convinced Myers became that its restrained insistence was a sign of devious intelligence, like the indolent knuckle-cracking of a grinning prisoner who knew that his seemingly innocuous deed would eventually drive his jailor insane.

  Hoping to shut the creature up, the soldier vigorously shook his bag, a sense of accomplishment welling up inside of him as he heard the beast’s head rattle against the bottle’s sides. His satisfaction was short lived, though, as the creature simply recommenced its habitual knocking. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t be bullied. To draw out the creature’s next feeding period, a strategy that would allow the soldier to use the entirety of the subsequent day to figure out the beast’s second meal, it only made sense for him to take care of the first as late as possible in the current phase.

  Thus, with the addition of the larva’s persistent tapping ringing in his ears, Myers persevered in his push toward the elusive ranch. Though the beast’s irritating summons quickly set the soldier’s teeth on edge, it gave him a convenient distraction from his suffering and filled him with a rage that breathed new fire into his tired legs, unwittingly causing him to increase his pace. As such, it wasn’t long before he saw the farmhouse emerge from the blue and gray veil the dusk had draped across the land.

  Despite his relief, Myers staggered behind a wide tree at the perimeter of the ranch’s fields and carefully surveyed his destination. For all he knew, the small house might have been turned into a way station for the Martian’s human allies over the years. There weren’t any guards or vehicles out front, though, which was a good sign. He could see the white glow of a candle or lamp through the curtains covering one of the cottage’s side windows, and he crept over it. So the creature’s banging wouldn’t give him away, he removed his pack, and leaning awkwardly against his crutch, he wrapped both arms around the cloth container to stifle any sounds that might emanate forth. His ear positioned close to the pane, he listened intently and soon heard the voices of two boys conversing softly in French.

  After several minutes had passed without anyone else joining the discussion, the soldier slung his bag over his shoulder and lurched to the house’s entrance. Feeling a bit foolish, he rapped against the rough, wooden door and waited. Immediately, he made out the sound of one of the boys hushing the other and then the patter of small feet approaching warily. Seconds later, the entryway opened a sliver, its broad length trembling as if ready to slam back shut at any moment. Through the tiny crack in the door, Myers could see a fraction of a dark-haired boy’s face. The child timidly stared up at him with one eye, the other hidden behind the partially barred entrance. Knowing he looked like hell, the soldier flashed the kid his best smile and tried to soften his eyes.

  “Can I come in?” he asked gently, in the child’s native tongue. “I’ve walked a long way, and I’m tired and sore.”

  “Your accent is funny,” replied the boy, refusing to budge.

  “I’m not from around here.”

  The child’s expression grew suspicious.

  “Are you British?” he inquired somewhat reservedly.

  “No,” answered the soldier with a tired sigh.

  “American?” the boy suggested
optimistically, his tone hushed and eyes widening with anticipation.

  Myers chuckled and nodded. Star-struck, the child reverently stepped backwards and drew aside the door. He looked to be about nine or ten, his tattered clothes too tight and his skin marred by dirty smudges. A moment later, another boy, who was younger and smaller than the first, but shared the same black hair and straight nose, peered fearfully at Myers around the body of his relative. No less mussed, the smaller child wore tiny slacks that exposed his ankles and a shirt that wasn’t long enough to reach his waist. A crust of mucus ran from his right nostril to his upper lip. Beginning to put a few things together, the soldier gave them both a thankful look and lurched into the house. Instantly, the stench of sweat and mildew wafted under his nose, yet he forced himself to keep grinning, knowing that he would have an easier time with the kids if he could stay on their good sides.

  As the older boy hastily closed the door behind him, Myers ran his eyes over the place. Comprised of a single room, it was nonetheless divided into all the standard areas one would find in a normal home. The kitchen sat against the southern wall and contained a filthy sink, a potbelly stove, and a dented icebox. Adjacent to the battered chest, a child-sized table flanked by two small stools indicated the location of the dining room. As for the bed chamber, it was marked by a lumpy mattress atop which laid a pillow cover stuffed with soiled hay. Soot covered the house’s brick walls and the slatted floors were strewn with dirt and debris. Here and there, a broken wooden toy reclined on its side.

  “My name is Jacques. This is my brother, Philippe,” announced the older boy, proudly forcing his sibling out into the open.

  “Where are your parents?” Myers asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

  The boys grew pensive and lowered their eyes, their disheartened postures making their emaciated frames appear more fragile.

  “The green ones took them away, and they never came back,” muttered Jacques unhappily.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” replied the soldier, his throat tightening.

  Myers knew there was no way the kids had managed to keep the farm running if they couldn’t even take care of the cottage’s interior. All the same, he could feel himself running out of time. The slug would have to be fed soon or it would come after all of them.

  “Boys, are there any animals left alive here?” he asked, the bitter taste of bile spreading across his tongue.

  “We have carrots and potatoes, if you’re hungry!” exclaimed Jacques cheerfully, and the boy began to move toward the broken icebox when the soldier’s stern voice stopped him.

  “Answer the question.”

  The siblings looked tellingly at each other for a moment, and then the older boy returned his eyes to Myers and shook his head.

  “They’re all dead,” he declared unconvincingly. “We tried to save them, but nothing we did helped.”

  It was obvious they were lying, but as the soldier was about to confront them, the larva rapped its glass cell twice, as if in response to Jacques’s voice. Myers’s heart skipped a beat, and a green pallor spread across his sweat-slick skin.

  “What was that?” questioned Philippe, his finger pointing at the soldier’s pack.

  “Stay here!” Myers snarled and shambled out of the house as quick as his lame leg would carry him.

  His eyes leaping this way and that, he haphazardly circled the cottage, checking for anything suspicious. Aside from the empty pens and overgrown fields, though, everything seemed on the up and up. Returning to the front of the house, he paused for a second and ground his teeth. If the kid was telling the truth, things were going to get bad quick. He figured he could give up three or four pints of his own blood and still have enough strength to carry on the next day. However, that would still leave him short by a significant margin. He wouldn’t have a choice at that point. The rest would have to come from the kids.

  Myers rubbed his hand across his face. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t so bad, that all he’d need was a little bit from each of them. While the war had left him with a pretty good idea of how much a grown man could bleed out and still live, though, it hadn’t done the same concerning children. He began to worry that he’d kill both of them in the process and wondered if it would be better just to sacrifice one of them. The very thought of murdering one of the boys made his head spin and his stomach roil, however. A hysterical sob lodged itself in his throat, as he tried to think of any other alternative and kept returning to the same grim solutions.

  As if sensing his weakness, the beast again hammered twice against the jar. Furious, the soldier ripped off his pack and unzipped it. He slid his hand into the bag’s shadowy bowels, and ignoring the bottle that held the creature, he curled his hand around the cold, stabilizing grip of his pistol. His hands shaking, he clumsily resealed his pack and slid his arms through its straps. Almost slipping in his haste, he barged back into the house and advanced on the boys. Though it killed him a little inside, he screwed his face into a murderous mask, his eyelids stretched to their limit and lips peeled back from his teeth. Screeching, the children scurried away from him. In their terror, they repeatedly got in each other’s way and tripped themselves up. The house being as small as it was, they soon found themselves backed into a corner. Beyond rational thought, the weeping boys embraced, as afraid as they were confused. With Myers’s every move, they flinched and squealed. The soldier couldn’t remember ever having seen anything more dismal, but he couldn’t afford to be soft anymore. He said a silent prayer and placed the pistol’s barrel against Philippe’s temple.

  “Tell me what you’re hiding!” he shouted hysterically, his voice cracking.

  “Under the floor! Over there!” stuttered Jacques, waving at a spot of floor across the room.

  Abruptly turning his back on the disconsolate children, Myers stomped over to the location the older boy had indicated. He hadn’t noticed it before, but three of the slats there lacked the fine layer of grit that covered all their neighbors. Bending down, the soldier laid his crutch aside and frantically pried at the boards with his left hand. Splinters dug into his calloused flesh, and the nail of his index finger bent backwards and broke in half. Nevertheless, he didn’t stop until all the loose slats had been removed. Through the hole he’d exposed, he could see an incline of powdery dirt leading down into a glorified crawlspace.

  Made daring by his desperation, he lowered himself onto the slope and rode it all the way down, his passage kicking up a cloud of dust. As he came to a stop, he saw something large shift in the gloom, but the air was so saturated with particulates that he couldn’t make it out. Not waiting for the motes to settle, he shuffled forward on his knees and quickly discovered what the children had been so eager to conceal: an ancient hound sat patiently in the dirt, its body crossed by a few of the insubstantial strips of light that slipped through the spaces between the floorboards above, so the dog looked as if it were behind prison bars. From the dog’s lack of agitation, Myers guessed that it was probably blind and deaf. His eyes fixed on the old canine, the soldier removed his pack, set it on the ground in front of him, and gracelessly went through the motions of retrieving the slug’s bottle. Intending to wound the hound and then let the grub lap up its blood, he set the jar next to his bag and aimed his pistol at the panting, clueless animal.

  Before Myers could pull the trigger, though, the larva began to smash its head against the stopper on the bottle. As a consequence, the bottle fell onto its side. The next moment, the monster burst free and sprang forward with the velocity of a bullet. It struck the dog full in the chest, prompting a single yelp from the startled hound. With amazing speed, the slug twisted its spiral snout back and forth and burrowed inside the canine’s body. A sloppy sucking noise emanated from its terrible excavation and explained why no blood ran from the gaping wound. Apparently unable to make another sound, the dog thrashed around in the dirt for several seconds and then grew still. Myers watched in horror as its carcass slowly defla
ted, its flesh sinking into the gaps between its bones.

  Less than a minute later, the grub dug its way out of the dog’s side. Waving its gore-soaked head back and forth as if sniffing the air, it eventually focused the tip of its gruesome nose at Myers. All he could do to save himself, the soldier dropped his gun as the grub launched itself at him. More luck than anything, he managed to grab the beast around its midsection with his left hand and its chitinous head with his right. Surprised by his good fortune, he didn’t realize the lingering danger he was in until the larva rotated its proboscis and effortlessly sliced through his flesh. The soldier let out a grunt of pain and tore his lacerated appendage away while making sure to clamp down twice as hard with his other hand to keep the awful monster from wriggling loose. Lifting his ruined hand up to his face, he inspected the damage the maggot had wrought. Three gushing slits ran all the way across his palm, each of them so deep he could see bone.

  As Myers calmed down, he realized he would have ended up doing something similar anyway, considering the size of the dog. Repulsed but determined, he positioned his hand over the beast and let his blood pour down onto its waiting face. The vile creature voraciously slurped up the thick liquid, its ravenous hunger requiring the soldier to squeeze his fist several times during the feeding to keep the blood from coagulating. At last, having seemingly gotten its fill, the swollen grub convulsed several times and went limp. With a disgusted scowl, Myers shoved the larva back into its container and plugged the jar’s opening. Returning the bottle and his gun to the pack, he took out the cereal bar and the pack of gum from his breakfast rations and slid them into his breast pocket. His thoughts caught in a morass of exhaustion and horror, he numbly closed the satchel and dragged himself out of the crawlspace.