A Hole in the Sky

by William C. Dietz

  Capelli removed the money belt from his open pack, went around the fire, and gave it to her. When Susan peeked into the pocket and saw the coins, she gave the gold back. She was impressed by Capelli’s determination to deliver what he could easily have kept for himself—as well as his willingness to trust her. Maybe the decision to turn back hadn’t been so stupid after all. Even if she should hate him. But Nathan was stubborn. Very stubborn. And, if he refused treatment, then Capelli might have been correct. Either way, he’d been honest about it—and that was worth a lot.

  “And there’s something else,” Capelli said, as he returned the belt to his pack. “Locke believed that Haven is special. A place where he could settle down. I’d like to find out if he was correct.” Their eyes met across the fire. Susan sipped her tea. “So would I.”

  Days passed. Then a week, as they circled the city of Wichita, and continued south. There had been sightings, and a run-in with some Grims, but the strategy had been successful. Now, after a long day of walking, the twosome had arrived at an airfield outside the small town of Wellington. It consisted of a three-story control tower, a single runway, and three hangars. Two were empty and a dusty Piper J-3 Cub occupied the third.

  “So what do you think?” Susan inquired. “Should we camp here?”

  “It looks deserted,” Capelli answered. “But I saw some Leaper scat on the way in, and we’d be very exposed. What if they swarmed us?”

  “How ’bout the tower?”

  Capelli eyed the structure. The glassed-in control room would provide them with a good view of the surrounding area and make it easier to stay warm. But once inside the structure it would be impossible to leave if they were surrounded. Of course, perfect camping spots were nonexistent. “Let’s find some water, top off the canteens, and go for it. We’ll use Sterno for cooking.”

  The airport had its own water tower and the faucet outside the tiny terminal building was still functional. It wasn’t long before the pair were up in the tower making themselves at home. They even brought Rowdy inside, closing the door behind him.

  Capelli and Susan were used to each other by that time and went about their various chores with very little discussion. Because of the tower’s height, and the flat country all around, they knew that even the least bit of light would be visible through the windows. So as the sun went down, the couple went to considerable lengths to minimize the use of flashlights as they cooked a simple dinner and got ready for bed. And it was then, just as they were about to turn in, that the Chimera began to arrive.

  The invasion began with a roar as two fighters dropped out of the sky, skimmed the airfield, and soared upwards again. Capelli’s first thought was that they had been spotted, and he was reaching for the Marksman, when Susan touched his arm. “Look!”

  By kneeling in front of the window, with only the top of his head and eyes exposed, Capelli could look out over the airport with very little chance of being seen. And the sight that met his eyes was both amazing and frightening.

  There were Drones. Dozens of them. All sweeping in from the north. The overlapping beams they projected lit the way for at least a hundred Hybrids. And he could see Stalkers bringing up the rear. Capelli was quite familiar with the big spider-like machines, which he knew to be the equivalent of human tanks. “This isn’t about us,” he concluded. “There are far too many of them. The stinks are on the move for some other reason.”

  And the prediction proved to be true as both the Drones and Hybrids passed the tower by. Then they divided themselves into smaller groups and spread out. “They’re securing the airport,” Susan observed. “With us inside.”

  Capelli was impressed by Susan’s calm, no-nonsense manner. “Yeah! Look at the Stalkers. They’re settling in for the night.”

  And it was true. As each machine came to a halt, Hybrids could be seen exiting the mechs. Most of them were heading towards the far side of the airstrip, but a few were wandering around. “It’s just a matter of time before a stink comes up here,” Susan observed.

  “True,” Capelli agreed. “And since there’s no place other than the washroom to hide in, we’ll have to kill it and do so quickly. So quickly that it doesn’t have a chance to send a mental image to the Chimeran hive-mind. Then, if we’re lucky, the rest of them won’t notice.”

  Susan looked skeptical. “Really?”

  “Hybrids are like ants,” Capelli replied. “At this moment thousands of them are dying worldwide for a variety of reasons. Kill one and the rest won’t notice unless they see it occur—or the hive-mind has reason to think that something unusual has taken place. That’s when the you-know-what hits the fan.”

  Both of them ducked as a Patrol Drone paused outside and a beam of light played across the back wall. Then it was gone, and Capelli heaved a sigh of relief. “That was close.”

  Susan took a peek. “Uh-oh! Two stinks left the nearest Stalker and they’re coming this way.”

  “Damn,” Capelli said disgustedly. “We could handle one of them with a knife. Now we’ll have to use a gun.”

  “True,” Susan replied calmly, as she removed the Ruger from its shoulder holster. “But that doesn’t mean we have to make noise. Here’s a little something I purchased back in Tank Town.”

  Capelli watched as she removed a fat tube from one of her pockets and began to screw it onto the .22’s barrel. “A silencer? Perfect. Let’s hide in the washroom. Remember, it has to be quick.”

  The restroom was so small that Capelli had to stand on the toilet, and Rowdy was forced into a corner as Susan took up a position next to the door. The dog growled but stopped when Capelli ordered him to.

  Susan stood with her pistol at the ready. She could hear brief bursts of stink speech as the ’brids came up the stairs. Then it was possible to smell the Chimera as they entered the control room. The odor was reminiscent of rotting meat.

  All of their gear had been pushed back into a corner. But it wouldn’t take the Chimera long to find it. So as the Hybrids paused to look out through the windows, Susan pushed the door open and stepped into the control room. She held the pistol with both hands.

  The semiauto produced a soft phut, phut, phut sound as Susan fired. The stink on the left fell like a rock as two .22 slugs punched their way through the back of its skull. The second ’brid started to turn. Susan pulled the trigger, saw the Chimera’s head jerk as a bullet hit it in the jaw, and corrected her aim. The next bullet hit the Hybrid in the left ear and penetrated its brain. The ugly-looking monster was already dead and falling when Susan reflexively triggered another shot. It shattered the front window and sent shards of glass tinkling onto the concrete below.

  Rowdy growled and rushed out to investigate the dead bodies. Capelli was right behind him.

  “I broke a window,” Susan said tightly. “Glass hit the concrete below.”

  Capelli eyed the scene outside. There were no signs of alarm. “This would be a great time to get the hell out of here.”

  “It would,” Susan agreed. “But how?”

  “See the Stalker down below? The one these two arrived in? We’ll drive it out of here.”

  Susan’s eyebrows rose. “You are one crazy bastard.”

  Capelli grinned. “You got that right. Get your stuff—and one more thing …”

  “Yes?”

  “I like the way you kill stinks.”

  Susan smiled. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”

  Capelli shook his head. “No, just you.”

  Ten minutes later they were packed and ready to go. Susan descended the spiral staircase first, her silenced pistol at the ready. Capelli was right behind her with Rowdy on an improvised leash. Then they were out the door and into the cool night air.

  Capelli paused for a moment and scanned the immediate area. There were no stinks to be seen. So he led Rowdy and Susan around the corner and out towards the Stalker. The belly hatch was open and a narrow ladder extended downwards. “Shuck your pack and climb in,” Capelli instructed.
“I’ll shove Rowdy up the ladder. There’s a gun turret up above the cockpit. He can ride there. Be sure to tie him in. Then, once you’re ready, I’ll push the gear up.”

  Susan shrugged her pack off, climbed up into the machine, and gagged as the cockpit’s fetid odor caught in the back of her throat. But there was no time to think about that as Capelli shoved the big dog up through the hatch. With a firm grip on Rowdy’s leash, Susan guided him up a couple of steps into the gun turret. He made a whining noise but stopped as she scratched behind his ears. Once the animal was secured she hurried back down.

  Capelli passed the packs up to her, and while she looked for a place to stow them, he entered the cockpit. “You’d better get that harness on,” he suggested, dropping into the pilot’s chair. “This thing is going to throw you around.”

  “So you’ve done this before?”

  “Twice. Once in a captured unit that was used for training purposes—and once in the field when there was no other choice.”

  Capelli lifted a cover out of the way and thumbed a switch. Susan heard a loud whine, more than two dozen indicator lights came on, and the hull began to vibrate. He flipped a switch and she felt a violent jerk. “Sorry about that,” Capelli said, as he took hold of the aircraft-style control stick. “I’m a bit rusty. Here we go.”

  The machine lurched from side to side and generated whine-thud sounds as four articulated legs carried it across the airstrip towards the access road on the far side of the airport. Susan was looking up at the rearview monitor. “None of them are following us.”

  “Good,” Capelli replied. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

  Ten minutes later they were approaching Route 81 when Capelli saw lights on the highway and realized that he was looking at a southbound convoy. Susan looked from the screen to Capelli. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’ll join them,” Capelli said. “And hope for the best.”

  “Which is?”

  “We get forty or fifty miles down the road and bail out.”

  “And if we can’t?”

  “Then it’s been nice knowing you,” Capelli said, as he glanced her way. “Are you sorry you came?”

  “No.”

  Capelli reached over to hold her hand. “Neither am I.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WHAT’S YOURS IS MINE

  Friday, October 30, 1953

  The Badlands

  Having successfully attacked the federal base and split his forces into three groups for the 290-mile trip home, Judge George Ramsey and twenty-two of his regulators were making their way through a narrow river gorge when the Leapers attacked. The Chimera were roughly the size of dogs, but because of their long, pointy tails they bore a vague resemblance to scorpions.

  One or two Leapers would have been no match for such a large party of humans. But hundreds of the creatures were pouring out of caves in the rocky slopes on both sides of the shallow river. More than that, they had the advantage of height, and many were able to leap onto their victims from above. Once they gripped the outrider’s head with their forelegs, the monstrosities opened their jaws wide to expose needle-sharp fangs. That was the last thing some of the humans saw as they were dragged off their horses to die in the river.

  The whole thing happened so quickly, and the stinks attacked with such ferocity, that Ramsey and his entire party would have been killed had it not been for drills held at regular intervals during the journey. Ramsey was mounted on a huge Clydesdale named Thunder. As the attack began, he jerked the horse’s head around and made a grab for one of two sawed-off shotguns holstered to either side of his saddle. “Form a circle!” he shouted. “Protect the pack animals!”

  Ramsey’s voice was barely audible over the staccato roar of gunfire and the screams of panicked horses as their riders fired at the Chimera. Some of the stinks were blown apart, but there were plenty more, and they kept coming. Ramsey fired both barrels in quick succession. Each blast of double-ought buck struck one of the airborne monsters and produced an explosion of blood as Thunder trampled a squealing Leaper beneath his massive hooves.

  Then it was time to holster the first weapon and draw the second. The first shot went wide as Thunder took an unexpected step to the right. But the second struck an already wounded Leaper full-on and blew half of its skull away.

  Then Thunder was part of the defensive circle. Ramsey pulled the Clydesdale around and kneed the big animal into line. The pack mules, each of which was loaded with a portion of the loot taken from the federal facility, were milling around at the center of the formation. Some of the braying animals were tangled up by then and began to nip at each other. But none of the regulators had time to sort the mess out.

  The river ran red with blood as Ramsey and the surviving members of his party fired hundreds of rounds. Projectiles chewed up both the Chimera and the surrounding landscape as each man blasted whatever was directly in front of him. Three of the horrors took a rider named Carter down. All four of them perished as a hail of projectiles chopped the surface of the river into a bloody froth.

  The battle came to an end about a minute later as the last of the Leapers launched a suicidal charge and fell in successive waves. “God damn it to hell,” Ramsey said as the firing finally stopped. “It seems like there’s more of the bastards every day. Hunter? There you are! Let’s find out how many casualties we have. And why didn’t our scouts warn us?”

  “I don’t know,” the hard-faced outrider replied. “But I got a feeling they were cut down without getting a shot off. We’ll find ’em upriver.”

  “That makes sense,” Ramsey agreed darkly. “They might hit us again. So let’s keep our eyes peeled.”

  It took the better part of fifteen minutes to count heads, treat the wounded, and get the pack train straightened out. Unfortunately, one of the pack mules had been killed and part of its cargo destroyed. Ramsey still had more than four thousand doses of Hale vaccine left, however. That was enough not only to supply all of his workers but to protect lots of other people, too. All of whom would be required to swear fealty to him.

  But that was in the future. At the moment, Ramsey had other matters to attend to.

  “Tully is in a bad way,” Hunter told him. “Doc took a look but says he ain’t gonna make it. Tully asked for you.”

  Ramsey was reluctant to dismount. Because at 290 pounds that was a chore. But if Tully was dying, then it was Ramsey’s duty to speak with him.

  Hunter accepted Thunder’s reins as Ramsey swung a meaty thigh up and over the Clydesdale’s enormous hindquarters and managed to lower himself to the ground without assistance. That was a personal victory of sorts.

  One of the regulators was waiting to escort Ramsey downstream to the spot where Tully was laid out on a horse blanket with his saddle for a backrest. It was soaked with blood, as was the pressure bandage wrapped around his chest. Tully was a tough man and knew the score. The outrider managed a smile as Ramsey knelt next to him.

  “Thanks for coming, Judge. It looks like this is the end of the trail for me. Please make sure that my woman gets my pay and gear.”

  “I will,” Ramsey promised. “Plus I’ll tell Mr. Perkins to scrub whatever you and the missus owe to the company store.”

  “That’s right kind of you,” Tully managed. He coughed, and blood trickled down his chin. Doc Laferty was there to wipe it away. “There’s one more thing,” Tully added. “A favor, if you’re willing.”

  “Which is?”

  “You can’t wait for me,” Tully replied. “I know that. But don’t leave me alive.”

  “I won’t,” Ramsey promised, as he struggled to his feet. “Where do you want it?”

  “In the head.”

  Ramsey favored a British .455 Webley Break-Top revolver as his personal sidearm. He removed the weapon from the shoulder holster under his left arm and took careful aim. The report echoed back and forth between the canyon walls, sent a bird flapping into the air, and marked mile 231 of the long journey ho
me.

  Two days after the battle with the Leapers, Ramsey and his men cut through what had once been a ranch and arrived at the edge of a huge crater. It was at least a mile across and roughly 600 feet deep. The riders made their way up over the lip that surrounded the depression and then followed a circular path down to the wreck below.

  No attempt had been made to hide the path—a decision that would have been fatal elsewhere. But Ramsey knew the crater and the wreckage that lay at the bottom of it to be unique. Nobody was quite sure what type of Chimeran spaceship was interred there, or how the American military had been able to bring the huge vessel down, only that it had.

  And even though there were more than 300 humans living in the wreck, it had never been attacked. Was that simply a matter of good luck? Or did the ship register on the Chimeran sensors as an active installation? If so, that reflected the hive-mind’s limitations. It could see everything its minions saw but had to process all of the incoming data itself. Some things got lost, were misinterpreted, or were assigned the wrong priority. And with no one to question the hive-mind’s conclusions, such errors went uncorrected.

  The party was welcomed by a pair of well-armed guards and allowed to enter the hull via a hole that had been cut through the side of the ship. The power plant was still online, although no one knew how long it would remain that way. So the air was warm and the lights were on.

  The uppermost levels of the vessel were reserved for livestock, so the horses and mules were left there, as the mayor of Shipdown came up to greet Ramsey. Piers Olmey was a tall man who had a long face and insisted on wearing a frock coat.

  The two of them had a long-standing relationship that dated back to the days when Ramsey had been a district judge and Olmey had been a prosecutor. They shared a stern, no-nonsense approach to law enforcement.

  Having installed Olmey as mayor of Shipdown, Ramsey knew he would be able to count on the community’s citizenry when it came to the challenges that lay ahead, and there would be plenty of them.