The Nexus Colony

by G. F. Schreader

  It all happened so quickly that neither man had even a moment’s time to rationalize what was transpiring before they both went crashing down into the pit, hitting the bottom feet first with a reverberating thud, breaking instantly into an awkward crouched run through the portal of the tunnel. Never looking back, driven only by primal fear, it wasn’t until Abbott broke the plane of the portal at the opposite end that he began screaming to get them out of the pit as fast as humanly possible.

  The others—Lisk, Almshouse, Grimes—they had not even been remotely prepared for the instantaneous pandemonium that erupted when Ruger and Abbott reappeared through the passageway. Even though minutes earlier Lisk had received the signal when Ruger tugged on the line, he was ill-prepared for the spontaneity of the sudden reaction by his commander. Lisk had been all but resolved to enter the passageway to search for the two. He had been ready to drop over the edge when Abbott’s screams echoed without warning.

  Ruger was hauled up first. The depth of the pit hindered a fast retreat, and to Abbott it seemed like a lifetime before he was scaling the wall being pulled frantically to the surface by the other four men. There was a momentary hiatus as both tried to catch their breath. Lisk asked, “Where’s Prall?”

  “They got him,” Abbott responded, the terror in his voice multiplying the intensity of everyone’s fear. Out of breath, Abbott frantically gestured for them to retreat. No one questioned the order. As Abbott departed, he glanced one last time down into the depths of the pit to see if the entities had yet reached the portal of the passageway. It was still dark. A new pang of terror overcame him. If they were there in the other structure…then they must be present here!

  “Go, man!” Abbott screamed, and the group scurried toward the entranceway of the chamber.

  “Where are they, man? Where are they?”

  “Where’s the gun?” Abbott screamed. “Who’s got the gun?”

  “Oh, Jesus! No! They’re going to kill us!”

  “Move! Move!”

  Then suddenly the lights in the chamber began to illuminate all around, and throughout the gallery the entities began to materialize as if out of thin air. The chamber was bathed by an eerie phlogiston, and it momentarily caused everyone to halt and glance backward.

  “There! They’re over there!”

  The entities floated on a cloud of air, and the penetrating insect-like hum froze their senses as the men all instinctively clutched at their ears to fend off the stabbing electrical pain shooting through their bodies.

  Almshouse was screaming at the entranceway that the crates had been moved inside, leaving the opening unprotected from the closing of the door. In frenzy, they dashed toward the opening, Ruger already fumbling with one of the crates, frantically jamming it next to the door frame.

  Lisk slammed the second crate into the door frame just as the panel overhead began descending like the trapdoor of a cage. Abbott was screaming “Get out! Get out!” as one by one they dove through the shrinking opening, and when the panel hit the top of the crates, for a instant Abbott and Ruger thought they were goners as the crates buckled under the downward thrust of the door. The strength of the crates held momentarily as both men dove through the opening, then as if by magic, both crates without warning shot through the air backward into the chamber interior as if being pulled inside by an invisible rope. The door slammed shut with a resounding metal thud! that echoed throughout the dark corridor. In the moment that followed, all five men sat for a brief few seconds breathing heavily, staring at the door panel that was back in place, perfectly blended with the honey-combed wall as if it had never been opened.

  Simultaneously getting to their feet, it took a few moments for them to comprehend that now the corridor was bathed in the same icy blue light from inside. In the seconds that followed, the incandescence of the entities appeared from around the bend. It illuminated the corridor just as it had the inner chamber of the dome. And then came the growing crescendo of the insect-like hum.

  “Holy mother of God! They’re out here in the corridor!”

  “Go, man!” Abbott screamed. “Go! Go! Go!” and in an instant, the men burst toward the opening in the ice wall, which by fortune was in the opposite direction of the approaching entities.

  Screaming frantically to get out through the wall, Abbott managed to gain some sort of control over himself as his combat instincts took over. Somehow he had managed to hold onto his weapon. Opening fire, the sounds of the bullets amplified through the corridor as the metal ricocheted off the walls, striking God only knew what. The crescendo of the alien whir only intensified.

  The frigid air outside in the crevasse area shocked each man when they entered the harshness of the environment. The severe reality of Antarctica slapped each one in the face as the beads of sweat almost instantaneously transferred the coldness into their bodies, and it felt as if they were being blast frozen in place. Frantically each man struggled to secure their parka hoods and gloves, at the same time agonizing to gain a frenzied escape from their tormentors.

  “Are they here? Are they out here?” someone screamed.

  “I don't see them! I don't see any!” came the harried response.

  Another great pang of fear suddenly arose in Abbott as he called out to Ruger, “The line! For Christ’s sake, did you drop the cable?”

  “It’s here!” Ruger yelled as he scurried to locate the rappelling rope and the cable end. Frantically, he scurried to don the harness and attach the rope. “I’m going up to start the rig!”

  “For God’s sake, hurry!” Abbott exclaimed.

  “Hook up two men at a time,” Ruger yelled, pointing to the cable. “She’ll hold two!”

  “Just go! Just go!” Abbott responded, spinning around to face the onslaught which had not yet emerged from the icy shadows.

  But as Ruger tugged one last time on the rope to test its integrity, to his utter surprise the cable next to him started to move slowly up through the air toward the ceiling overhang. Its unexpected movement turned everyone’s attention for a brief instant. It ascended for about twenty feet, stopped, then reversed and dropped back toward the crevasse floor.

  “Monroe!” Abbott exclaimed.

  “No,” Ruger responded. “It’s got to be Allison!”

  “Who cares!” Almshouse responded, reaching skyward toward the descending cable.

  “Get over here!” Ruger screamed at Grimes, gesturing for him to get ready into position to be hooked up. “Get the harness on!”

  “Get it!” Abbott yelled. “Hurry!”

  When the two men were secure, as if on cue, the cable began to reel in, and the two men rose slowly upward toward the ceiling and the start of crevasse wall, momentarily dangling helplessly in the air.

  Ruger quickly glanced at both Abbott and Lisk, a look of abandon on his face. “I don't know if the rope will hold more than one,” Ruger announced, dismayed. “Its liable to give.”

  Abbott cursed under his breath. He looked stone-faced at Lisk, then back at Ruger. “Get the fuck out of here, Mike. Send the cable back down as quick as you can. Go!”

  Abbott and Lisk watched as the three men ascended the crevasse, two on the cable, and one on the rope. Ruger lagged behind as he fought with all his strength to pull himself skyward toward the relative safety of the surface. Abbott turned his undivided attention back toward the tormentors. If Abbott knew anything about alien Grays at all, it was a presumption that by the nature of their physiology they were light sensitive. They had experienced it in the interior of the chambers. But was the ambient lighting here in the bottom of the glacial crevasse enough to temporarily stem their advance?

  “Shit!” Abbott cursed, wishing he’d had enough presence of mind to retrieve the carbide lamps. He could have shined the beam toward the opening. It would have been more effective than all the bullets in the world.

  Maybe.

  Chapter 19

  FEBRUARY 10, 20--

  PROJECT COMMAND CENTER

  GAITHERSBUR
G, MARYLAND

  3:30 P.M. EST (8:30 P.M. GMT)

  Only by coincidence, the space shuttle’s latest mission had been launched about two weeks prior to the arrival of Abbott’s team in the Mulock Glacier region. It’s orbital trajectory had taken it on a circumpolar path. It returned eleven days later. The space shuttle utilizes an incredible new tool which archaeologists are using to study ancient civilizations from space.

  The tool—called the SIR-C radar imaging system—is capable of imaging manmade structures which lie hidden beneath the desert sands or under the dense canopies of the jungles. It had already imaged buried segments of the Great Wall of China and had found evidence of numerous long-forgotten Central and South American temples.

  Anton Vandergrif was beside himself. Spread out on the table before them were imaging photographs of parts of Antarctica. Korbett could only marvel at how somebody—probably Ted Payne—could pull enough strings to get the space shuttle to deviate slightly from its mission objective to get radar imaging of the Mulock Glacier from space. But, my God! Korbett thought. Look what we have discovered!

  “What time is it in Antarctica?” Korbett muttered to himself out loud, glancing at the world clock on the table.

  “Eight thirty,” Darbury responded, and Korbett gave him a perfunctory glance.

  Everyone was silent in awe of the pictures. The images showed what could possibly be as many as twenty manmade—he corrected himself, alien-made—structures buried beneath the glacier. Whatever was down there, it was definitely a contrived geometric pattern. In his mind, Korbett attempted to sort out more of the data, which by now was piling up in his brain like a landslide of information. He tried to fathom the possible scenarios of how they were going to deal with this. He had to try to make some sense of it all, because he was going to have to brief the President when it was all over. That’s when Maggie came hurriedly into the room.

  She handed the communiqué to Korbett, who saw the concerned look on her face. Everyone gathered around the table.

  “It’s from Abbott,” Korbett said, surprised.

  “Look at the time of transmission,” Maislin commented. “Doesn’t make sense.”

  Everyone knew the satellite window was closed. Odd that the message could have gotten through because there shouldn’t have been any communications link-up. They all brushed aside the thought. The message itself was what was bringing everything to a sudden halt, including the incredible evidence that only moments before had been consuming them.

  It was a simple one sentence message. Korbett looked around the room at each one of them. The stress of the last several days was showing on all their faces. Probably his, too. He responded, affirmatively, “Let’s do it.”

  “Let’s abort,” Maislin announced.

  Korbett tossed the communiqué onto the pile in the middle of the table. He should have called for it earlier. The words on the paper intoned what may have been an untimely decision on Korbett’s part. It said:

  GET US OUT NOW! M.A.

  Chapter 20

  FEBRUARY 10, 20--

  MULOCK GLACIER

  ENCAMPMENT

  8:50 P.M. GMT

  How the tents had withstood for so long against the ferocious katabatic winds was testament only to human innovation. Not that it really mattered anymore. The winds tearing away at the shelter might be the more merciful way for the five remaining humans to be terminated.

  Lightfoot had disappeared first. Then Monroe and Allison – my poor, poor Allison, Ruger thought—they had been taken away by these evil entities…God only knows what fate befell them.

  The monsters looming outside were all too real. Ruger’s unreserved hatred and anger, his helplessness…they were only being subdued by the nightmarish horror that had unfolded—and was still unfolding—outside the thin, canvass barrier that only separated them visually from their unearthly antagonists.

  Totally exhausted from the ordeal, their body resistance down to its lowest levels since they arrived, they crowded around the fading warmth of the camp stove like it was their last bastion of hope, awaiting only to be dispatched by their tormentors like lambs to the slaughter. They almost wished they would freeze to death and end it all right there and then.

  There was nothing left to be said—nothing that could be said—that was going to change the situation. The blood vessels in Ruger’s brain were pounding like they were going to burst at any moment. Abbott, Lisk…they were the cool ones. Ruger sensed that somewhere deep within each of their souls they had made their inner peace with whatever form of a god dwelled therein. Almshouse. Grimes. They were portraits of human pathos, unable to come to grips with anything, let alone themselves.

  Make your peace, man, Ruger intoned, wanting to tell his friend Hilliard Grimes, but somehow was unable to formulate any words to express himself outwardly. Perhaps it was sheer cowardice, Ruger thought of himself. He was not a man prone to weep, but the emotions of a man facing imminent death are restricted by no self-imposed barriers.

  Ruger turned his head away from his friend, no longer able to watch the despair in Grimes’ pallid face. Trying to shrug the awful feeling of abandon, Ruger took in a deep breath. Even then, there was no spirit left. The repetitive litany of his prayers were losing significance, and at last his conscious repetition faded into nothingness, the holy invocations lost to the emptiness outside.

  Ruger fought off the nausea, swallowing back the awful taste of bile that wanted to spew up from his empty stomach. So far, he was sure he hadn’t urinated in his pants, but looking again at his pathetic friend, Ruger thought that perhaps Grimes had even passed off worse than that.

  The wind outside. They were probably waiting for it to subside, although Ruger couldn’t fathom why. He was still absolutely astonished by the way their craft hovered in the air all around the encampment seemingly unaffected by the wind’s turbulence. It looked almost as if they were in a state of suspended animation, out of dimensional phase with the physical reality of the immediate environment. That the wind had no effect at all seemed to be more frightening than if it had. If it had no bearing on their interactions with the humans…

  In the silence of the horror, Ruger’s mind began to drift, and his foremost thoughts returned back to the moment he had reached the top of the crevasse wall hours ago. Grimes and Almshouse…

  The two men reached the top several minutes before the struggling Ruger. As he strained every muscle in his adrenaline-filled body, Ruger pulled his muscular bulk the last twenty five feet to the crevasse edge. Nervously, he awaited to see the cable begin its reverse descent back down along the ice wall. They should have reversed it by now, and by the time Ruger reached the top and pulled himself along the steep slope toward the ridge the cable still had not dropped.

  The wind howled with a relentless fury, and he felt the pain of the frigid air stinging his face and burning his eyes. Struggling to retrieve his goggles from the pocket pouch, he somehow managed to get them set onto his face to protect his eyes. He could now see the rig at the top of the ridge only a short twenty yards away. Grimes and Almshouse were standing side by side right next to it, facing away in the direction of the encampment.

  They were peering off in the direction of the camp, and even when Ruger began yelling frantically above the howling tempest to, “Send down the cable! Grimes…Almshouse…” they ignored his desperate pleas.

  Ruger’s confused emotional state—anger, fear, frustration—he fought desperately to keep it all from coming unglued. As he pulled himself along the slope the last few yards, his ire was focused so intently on the two men that he initially failed to see what had been keeping them from reacting at all to his shouts. Even the ominous, lone disk-shaped craft that was hovering motionless just above and behind Ruger’s head had initially gone unobserved.

  When Ruger’s line of vision broke the horizon of the ridge line, in an instant his brief surge of anger diminished to be replaced by a feeling of absolute terror. Inside of the span of a few seconds,
Ruger experienced a total shift of emotions, his heart dropping into a well of complete abandon. For they had not left The Visitors behind in the bowels of the glacial crevasse. Their minions were waiting on the surface, and they hovered over the distant encampment like an evil manifestation of everything that men know is not of human convention.

  Ruger stood alongside the two others, and in his horrified stupor he counted the number of distant alien craft that loomed like conspicuous dots against the gray landscape. One…two…four…seven…eleven in all, still not seeing the twelfth spacecraft hovering just over his shoulder only ten yards away.

  The symmetry of their formation suddenly changed without warning. One ship moved out of the formation, and in a spectacular motion, it was as if the craft had singled out the three intruders far up the slope. It traversed the two mile distance in a matter of one second…blink…blink…blink…almost faster than the human eye was capable of even registering. Before Ruger’s brain had time to process what had just occurred, in an instant the craft had taken on a distinctive form and was hovering a few yards in front of them. It was a mere twenty feet in width, a cupola extruding from both the top and bottom of the craft ringed by a series of windows, and it was dull gray in color. It was as if Ruger was standing in the middle of a dream, the phantasmagoric image of the spacecraft there visually in front of his eyes, yet something in his brain telling him it wasn’t quite real, not quite solid, more like a projection from some other dimension that hadn’t yet taken on full physical reality in this time and space.

  He felt the push of the wind threatening to knock him off balance, but the ominous disk was unaffected, totally stable in front of his eyes as if the force of the rushing air was passing right through the molecular structure of the craft. They’re not really here! They’re not really here! something in his brain started yelling. But as if to mock his denial, suddenly and unexpectedly the winch began to operate itself, and as Ruger turned to look, he was shocked yet again when he saw the twelfth craft only yards behind him.