Alien Jungle

by Roxanne Smolen

  “It’s over, Dad.”

  “I put everything I had into this project.”

  Trace placed his hand upon his father’s shoulder. Impani glanced from person to person, feeling uncomfortable, as if something deeply personal had just transpired.

  A moment later, Trace gathered them with his gaze. “You three help Madsen spread the word. I want visual signs that the colony is pulling out.”

  “What about you?” Impani asked.

  “I’m going to go tell the plants.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Trace stood before the doctor feeling like a kid begging permission to stay up late.

  “Absolutely not!” Dr. Abrams told him. “Your friend may not have visitors.”

  “He’s more than my friend,” Trace said. “He’s my teammate.”

  “He’s a menace. He snaps restraints at will, constantly mutters to himself. Even I don’t like going in there.”

  “Look, I know it’s dangerous, but if I don’t try, a lot of people might die before that relief ship gets here.” When she hesitated, he motioned toward a screen overhead. “You can watch me on monitor. Send in Security if anything looks suspicious. But I have to speak to Anselmi.”

  She glanced about as if searching for options. “Fifteen minutes only.”

  Trace nodded and approached the guards who stood on either side of Quarantine Room 4. His mouth was so dry his tongue felt glued to his teeth. He locked his mask in place—then checked again to be certain it was properly sealed. Moving as if his body were not his own, he stepped through the hatch.

  Anselmi sat in bed. Broken straps dangled from his wrists and biceps, but restraints still held his legs. Stains painted his hospital gown as if his sweat were gray.

  He watched with black-rimmed eyes. “Hello, Trace.” His voice was rough.

  “Hello, Anselmi. How goes the battle?”

  “I think we’re losing.”

  “But we don’t have to lose the war.” Trace stepped to the bedside. “You can help us. There can still be peace.”

  “How?”

  “Can you communicate with the plants inside you?”

  “Communicate?” Anselmi gave a harsh laugh and covered his ears. “I can’t shut them up. They want to know everything about us, want to understand why we traveled light years just to kill them.”

  “Is that why they attacked?”

  “They haven’t harmed anyone.”

  “Are you saying the people who have been taken over are still alive?” Trace leaned closer. “Is there a chance they can be recovered?”

  “Enough!” Anselmi shouted. His leg restraints snapped as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I can’t stand it. You’re screaming in one ear and they’re screaming in the other. Talk to them yourself!”

  Anselmi became still. Then, in a windy voice that Trace didn’t recognize, he asked, “What are you?”

  Trace frowned. Was he was speaking directly to a plant? “My name is Trace Hanson.”

  “This organism names you leader.”

  “That is correct.”

  “What means this—leader?”

  Trace was taken aback. “It means… I speak for all.”

  Anselmi gasped as if in revelation. “I, too, speak as one.”

  “You’re the leader?”

  “We are all leader. As the need arises.”

  “Fine.” Trace kept his voice level. “You are holding my people. I want them back.”

  “People?”

  “Organisms.”

  Anselmi’s face contorted. Finger-sized lumps rolled beneath his skin. “We have learned much of your composition. You are mobile. Vocal. You interact with the environment. But we learned nothing of you until we found this life form. It taught us language.”

  “Return him.”

  “There is still much to learn.”

  “Yes, there is,” Trace said. “Ask him the difference between peace and war.”

  Anselmi’s face went slack.

  Trace straightened his shoulders and set his jaw. Study that concept. We can destroy you from orbit just the way we irradiated this valley.

  Then a thought burst upon him—in a voice other than his own. The leader would sacrifice its organisms?

  Trace reeled. Had Anselmi taught them telepathy? If the need arises, he answered in thought then said aloud, “We did not come to kill you. Release my people, and we will leave.”

  “What means this—leave?”

  “Our mobility will take us away. Your world will return as it was.”

  “Never as it was.”

  “If you’re referring to this valley, eventually the radiation will wear off and—”

  “We have learned much. Mobility and interaction. Peace and war. Trust and lies.” Anselmi’s hollowed eyes turned toward him.

  A prickle of alarm swept through Trace. “I’m telling the truth.”

  “What means this—truth?”

  He blew out a breath. “There must be a way to convince you.”

  “Communicate with us.”

  Alarm became a siren. “You mean… touch you?”

  “Teach us your truth.”

  Anselmi’s rasping voice broke in. “No, Trace. They’ve closed themselves to me. I don’t know if you can trust them.”

  Trace stared. He could walk away, not take the chance. But then, what chance would the colonists have? Slowly, he stripped off his gloves. “Trust goes both ways.”

  <<>>

  Aldus stared unseeing at the supply reports before him. He couldn’t believe this was happening. How could he tell his people they were leaving this world after all his promises? All his plans? How could he fail so miserably?

  He looked across the conference table at the three Scouts. Trace’s team—Impani, Wilde, and a girl whose name escaped him. They watched him expectantly. Beside them sat the interim supply clerk, Celeste Meade. Her presence aggravated him like a reproach.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose then rubbed his eyes. How could he tell his people? He glanced to his right and with a pang realized that Cole should be there.

  “As I understand it,” Aldus said, “we are to disassemble the camp slowly while maintaining the impression that we are working as fast as we can.”

  Wilde nodded. “You have to stretch it out until the transport arrives.”

  Aldus scowled. “For three months?”

  “Let’s hope the plants have no sense of time,” Impani said. “You don’t want them to think you’re stalling.”

  “Plants that think,” Aldus muttered.

  With a whine, Celeste said, “I don’t know why we can’t use the Impellic rings. Just drop everything and run.”

  “This equipment is expensive, that’s why.” He picked up her report then let it drop again onto the table. “I can’t read this. Can the warehouses be combined or not?”

  “Well, sir,” Celeste spluttered, “as I’m sure you’ll agree, storing fertilizer with provisions might not be—”

  “Then move the food to the cafeteria,” Aldus boomed, louder than necessary.

  Celeste cringed in her seat.

  Madsen burst into the room. “They’re coming.”

  “How many?”

  “All of them.”

  Aldus leaped up. “Get everyone outside. Issue flamethrowers.”

  Wilde nodded. “A show of force.”

  “Most of the guns are empty,” Madsen said.

  “We’re low on gellasene,” Celeste moaned. Her eyes were wide, and she appeared on the brink of tears.

  Aldus felt a conflicting wave of impatience and sympathy. He turned to Madsen and said in a low voice, “Issue them anyway.”

  Madsen whirred away.

  Circling the table, Aldus approached the clerk. She stood as he met her, and he placed his hand on her shoulder. “Celeste, no one knows those stores better than you. If anyone can find extra gellasene, you can.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. There isn’t any. But maybe we could substitute ferti
lizer number four. It’s flammable before dilution.”

  “That’s the kind of thinking we need. Gather as much as you can.”

  She gave a tremulous smile. “Yes, sir.”

  He watched her scurry from the room.

  Wilde muttered, “It would take a major overhaul to re-fit the guns for that kind of fuel.”

  Aldus didn’t need to be told that he’d sent the woman on a fruitless mission. A quavering breath escaped him, and he glared to cover it. “You three with me.”

  They rushed from the meeting room into the maze of tubes. Shouts echoed through the passage. A crowd blocked the exit, churning and pushing to get outside.

  With a grimace, Aldus grumbled, “We don’t have time for this.”

  Wilde pressed past him and shouted, “Move aside! Coming through.”

  People turned. Their expressions changed when they saw Aldus. Wilde forced through them and opened a path for Aldus to follow.

  At the head of the pack, Wilde shouted. “All right, four at a time. You four. Go!”

  Four men ducked through the orifice into the clean room. Air whistled.

  Wilde allowed another group to leave then turned to Aldus. “You go, sir. We’ll catch up.”

  Aldus nodded, grateful that the boy knew how to take charge.

  But as he ducked into the vestibule, he heard Wilde yell, “Impani, watch his back.”

  He didn’t need a damned bodyguard. Especially not his son’s girlfriend. But forced air screamed around him and nearly knocked him off his feet. He clambered through the clean room then pushed through the outer door with Impani close behind.

  Gray dawn met him. People ran in all directions. Those with flamethrowers took up positions on either side of the bridge. Fires still burned in the trenches surrounding the camp, but the flames were lower, and Aldus could see over them to the approaching moss men.

  A cold sensation gripped him. He didn’t need to count the creatures to know that their numbers matched the missing. He didn’t want to fight them. The thought made him sick. But his responsibility lay with the living.

  “Here, Mr. Hanson.” Tungst Einkorn handed him a flamethrower.

  “Thank you,” he murmured absently. Then he checked the gun. It was three-quarters full. He hurried after the man and exchanged it for one that was empty.

  “Are you nuts?” Impani hissed. “You’ll be defenseless.”

  Aldus faced her. He intended to make a scathing remark about her being his bodyguard, but surprised himself by saying, “My son loves you.”

  At first, she looked abashed. Then her eyes flashed, and she set her jaw as if gearing up to challenge him. But if she spoke, Aldus didn’t hear. The shouts around him swelled. People lifted their guns.

  A moss man walked boldly across the bridge over the burning trench. In a wispy voice, the thing said, “Don’t shoot.”

  Recognition shot through Aldus like a bolt of electricity. He rushed toward the bridge, shouting, “Hold your fire! Stand down!” He stood in front of the moss man, arms outstretched, and ran his gaze over blank and puzzled faces. Their voices fell, and into the silence he said, “It’s Cole.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Impani stared. The moss man stood as if rooted in the middle of the paddock, so near she could see the ruff of furry mold about its neck and the growth corded like armor over its midsection.

  Trace’s father shouted at the crowd. “Are you blind? This is Cole.”

  Alarm and disbelief twisted the faces of the onlookers. No one told them the monsters they’d been fighting were actually their missing friends and co-workers. None of the colonists lowered their guns.

  But Impani did. Now that it was pointed out, she was certain the creature was Cole. Something in the way it walked, the way it now held its head.

  Her flamethrower grew heavy. She didn’t want to fire upon Cole. She didn’t want to fight any of them. But as she glanced across the trenches, she saw dozens of moss creatures. The camp was surrounded.

  “Don’t move,” Mr. Hanson told Cole, a plea in his voice. “Just tell me what to do. How can I help you?”

  His words drew an impatient rustle from his employees—the shifting of many feet and guns.

  Over the sound came Cole’s rattling whisper. “We have learned much but at great cost. Leave.”

  The other creatures gave a whistling echo. “Leeeave.”

  The word rose in an eerie chorus. Impani suppressed a shudder. Igniting her weapon, she stepped to Mr. Hanson’s side. “Back away,” she told him beneath her breath.

  Instead of moving, he made a strangled sound. She followed his gaze.

  Cole’s body rippled as if huge snakes writhed beneath his skin. Fist-sized pustules grew over his head and shoulders. They burst with wet pops.

  The colonists recoiled with a collective gasp. Impani grimaced. What should she do? Was Cole alive in there? Was he suffering? She took Mr. Hanson’s arm to force him away, then froze in fascinated horror.

  Cole was melting. Gobs of gray-green sludge rolled down his body to puddle about his feet. His head elongated. His shoulders drooped and slid over his arms in swells.

  A woman screamed. The crowd shifted. Impani faced them, hands out as if she could stem their panic. As if she could stop their barrage of flame.

  No one fired. Holding her protective position, she glanced over her shoulder—then gawked. Beyond the smoking trenches, the other moss men were also melting. They dotted the hillside with mounds of sludge. What was happening?

  Suddenly, she remembered Trace’s plan to speak to the plants through Anselmi.

  <<>>

  Trace opened his eyes with the disquieting sensation that his innermost thoughts had been violated. He wondered how much time had passed. He stood as before at Anselmi’s bedside, holding his teammate’s hands. His ungloved fingers were clean of invading mold.

  Suddenly, Anselmi stiffened. With a gurgling wail, he threw back his head. A blob of sludge rolled out of his mouth. Trace yanked back, but Anselmi’s grip tightened and threatened to crush his bones. Their arms vibrated together like a single taut wire.

  Behind them, the hatch opened. Trace’s cry for help died in his throat. He stared aghast at his friend.

  More sludge poured from Anselmi’s mouth. It streamed from his nose and ears. Mucous coated his flesh as if it oozed from his pores. Thick slime dripped from the bed in strands. With a slurp, the mucous and sludge merged.

  Anselmi twitched and jerked. Suddenly, he slumped forward. Trace caught him. Anselmi was drenched in sweat, but his skin was clean, not slimy. Mysteriously, the bed sheets were also mucous-free.

  On the other side of the bed, the conjoined sludge rose in a pulsating ball. Trace cringed, still clutching Anselmi. What should he do? He couldn’t run, couldn’t fight.

  The ball grew. Stretching and reforming, it pulled itself into the shape of a human.

  Trace shrank back. The man-shaped plant turned its featureless face. Mold within it squirmed like dark maggots contained by a dull, transparent skin. He had the uneasy impression that it was looking at him.

  Abruptly, it collapsed. Trace watched transfixed as the puddle of sludge rolled across the floor to the wall. There came a hiss then a screech of air. The polycore wall curled open as if touched by acid. Oozing out the hole, the sludge disappeared from view.

  Trace stared, his mouth hanging open. He only realized that he was crushing Anselmi when someone tried to take him from his arms.

  Dr. Abrams hoisted Anselmi onto the bed. She checked his sensor readings. “They’re gone. I can’t believe it.” She looked at Trace with awe and disbelief. “What did you do?”

  <<>>

  Impani gaped at Cole. From the thinning moss, his facial features emerged. He opened his eyes and gave a loud wheeze as if he hadn’t breathed in a long while. Then he fell. His limbs twitched as the mold and moss seeped from his body. The outline of his clothing grew—first a collar, then a sleeve. His flesh appeared puckered and stained. The ebbi
ng coat of plant life re-formed to one side.

  Mr. Hanson took a halting step forward. Impani snatched at him but missed. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from Cole.

  The undulating mass of moss and sludge grew a mucous shell. Dirt clung to its sides. Without a sound, it rolled into a ball and glided back over the bridge.

  Across the trench, the other moss men had also become balls of retreating sludge. Their human hosts lay on the ground. Close to fifty of them. Some in lab coats. Some in hospital gowns. A few stirred as if waking.

  Cole groaned and coughed.

  Mr. Hanson yelled, “We need stretchers. Lots of stretchers.”

  “He did it,” Impani whispered. “Just like he said he would. Trace saved them all.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Trace sat at the head of the conference table, his teammates to either side. Across from him sat his father, Madsen, and Cole. Outside the meeting room, the cafeteria echoed with the screech of tables being moved and crates being stacked as workers converted the area to include food storage. Trace knew it was crucial for the colonists to combine warehouses and reduce living space to show good faith. However, the noise jangled his nerves and made him want to shout for them to stop. He was exhausted.

  He gazed across the table. Cole appeared pale and shaky. He had trouble meeting Trace’s eyes. He seemed embarrassed after hearing of their scuffle in the airlock. The doctor said he needed bed rest, but Cole insisted upon taking up his regular duties.

  Next to Cole, also paler than usual, sat Anselmi. After everything that had happened, Trace had expected Anselmi to ring home early. But since their three-day limit was nearly up and the auto-retrieve set, Anselmi decided to stay with the team. It showed loyalty, and Trace was grateful.

  Aldus said, “All the missing workers have been recovered, and while I don’t think any of them will be doing handsprings for a while, only two need further medical attention. Jack Barnes lost an arm to a machete, and Cheyenne Farmount suffered blunt trauma to the head. No one was burned. The shell of moss and fungus protected them.”