by David Ryker
They parted and I exhaled, gently touching my forehead against hers. “We should get some rest, eat something. If there’s no change by tomorrow, we’ll make a plan then. For now, we just need to wait.”
She nodded against my head and squeezed my hand. “We’re going to get out of this,” she whispered.
“I hope so,” I said. And I meant it.
On day three, our water rations ran out, and though we didn’t think it possible, it was even hotter.
During the night, the beasts came back. They didn’t howl this time, bay at us from below. There were no attempts to get in, no clawing on the hull, but they were there. We could hear them. Inside the living quarters, we’d managed to get the door closed, and though none entered the ship, we could hear them outside, padding around, their huge claws sinking into the frosted ground, their low growling rumbling in their stout chests. It continued through the night as they looked, inspecting the ship. We didn’t know what to make of it, or them, but it felt like they were sizing us up. Maybe this wasn’t their first crashed ship. Maybe they knew that we couldn’t stay inside forever, that eventually, we’d have to venture out, for water, or to try and find food, or rescue. Maybe they were checking our exits, making sure we couldn’t slip out the back without their knowledge.
Cocooned in the living quarters, buried under the earth, with Everett huddled against me, shivering in the cold air that seemed to penetrate the hull without any trouble at all, I stared at the ceiling, the three blankets piled on us barely keeping us warm. I watched my breath mist in front of my face and curl lazily in the dim glow of the emergency glow sticks we’d cracked and tossed on the floor. Neither of us wanted to be in total darkness in case the creatures got bold.
The earth pressed down. I could feel it through the walls, the pressure, the weight. I thought back to Genesis, to Sally, to the day I was conscripted. I’d been underground then, too, trapped inside my Blower with no hope of escape. But I had escaped, and I had made it out of there, and though it wasn’t quite as hot and cold as this dust-ball, it was just as deadly. So what the hell was the difference?
I rolled over and rested my chin on Everett’s head. I couldn’t believe she could sleep so easily at a time like this. Maybe it came with practice. She’d been through more shit than me, that was for sure. My mind ticked over like an idling engine, and eventually, sleep took me too.
When Everett woke, I was already working.
As soon as I felt the warmth of the dawn start to seep in, I let myself out of her embrace, took a frugal swig of water, and then went back up to the cockpit, dragging the biggest crate I could find with me.
I let it go and it slid down the length of the floor, landing with a dull thud against the pile of earth that had spilled in through the windows. The door stayed open and the dim light from the open rear doors bled in, giving me enough to work with. I didn’t care what Everett said, I wasn’t going to leave Volchec there — especially not if I was going to be working in the cockpit.
I hyperventilated to get as much oxygen into my system as I could, and then I set about digging her out. I needed to be pragmatic. Focused. She was dead, and Everett and I weren’t. We needed to keep it that way and to do that, I needed to move her. It wasn’t pretty, but it was necessary. She’d understand. I knew she would.
I freed her hands first, and peeled them off the controls. They were frozen and stiff and I had to be careful not to break them.
It took me a long time to get her out of the seat. When I undid her harness, she didn’t move. Rigor mortis had set in and she sat there, half bent over like a statue. Twenty minutes passed before I got her into the crate, her arms stiffly crossed across her chest.
I closed the lid and latched it before dragging it behind the pilot's chair and pushing it against the wall.
Everett came out of the living quarters wrapped in a blanket and shivering as I was dragging another crate up the cockpit slope.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Only one word came to mind. “Surviving.”
The dirt in the cockpit had nowhere to go, and my plan was to fill a crate, drag it to the edge of the hold and dump it out of the door. Everett’s idea was a lot better. We sifted through the debris in the hold and found a repair kit, complete with a plasma torch.
We took the rail around the catwalk off at the base, and then welded the bars above the rear doors. Using the winch that had nearly got me killed, we rigged up a pulley system, running the cable up to the rail and then around it before taking the hook back to the cockpit. Everett secured it to the crate, and then dumping it was as simple as filling it up and winding in the cable. It ground up through the cockpit, clattered to the floor in the hold, and then made the journey to the rear doors. When it was at the edge, all we had to do was open it and tip out the dirt inside. Winding in the winch wasn’t too tough with both of us, and though the sun was at its zenith by the time we dumped the first load, by the time it started waning we’d nearly cleared the cockpit. We still had a way to go before we could get at the console and the controls, but tomorrow was another day, if we could make it that far.
Digging with a survival shovel, short-handled as it was, sucked. I kicked the crate closed and latched it, sucking on my dry tongue, but made no attempt to look for another drink of water. I knew that Everett had polished off the last of what we had sometime during the afternoon. We were both dehydrated as hell, so I didn’t blame her. It was the elephant in the room, but neither of us was saying anything.
Still, I knew what needed to be done. We couldn’t wait for the guys any longer. I didn’t want to think about whether they were alive or dead, but we couldn’t bet on the former right now. We needed water, and we knew one place we could definitely get it.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Everett asked, pulling the empty crate back into the hold.
I crested the slope and dialed my Arcram up to the lethal setting, checking that it was clean and ready to fire before I pushed it back into my rib holster. I had a bag over my shoulder with a couple of empty water sacks in it, and on my waist I’d secured the ration-bottles we’d been drinking from. I met her eyes, wide and anxious. “We won’t last another day without water.”
She looked like she wanted to sock me, but she knew I was right and didn’t have any words to argue with, other than the ones I knew she’d say. It still didn’t make them any easier to hear. “That’s suicide.”
“We made it through once. They don’t come out until dark.” I held up the Survival Meter. “And we won’t lose the light for another forty minutes. I can get there and back in thirty. We’ve drunk more today than we did yesterday, and the temperature topped out at one hundred twenty. If tomorrow’s the same, we’ll both just burn up. Now that it’s cooled off,” I said sternly, checking the meter to see if it’d dropped any more, “I can make a run for it. It’s down to a hundred. If I wait any longer…”
I could see the muscles in her jaw flexing. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“Not a chance. I need you here, spotting for me, covering for me as I run back — and to help me get the fuck back up, too. We’re going to need to boil everything I bring back…” I swallowed, my throat dry and chalky. “By the time I get back here, I don’t know how much I’m going to have left in me. If you come as well, and we’re both too weak to make the climb — or hell, if one of us goes down out there…”
“And what if you go down, huh? What then? You’re just going to leave me alone on this fucking desert-shit-hole-fucking-planet?” Her voice was rising. She didn’t like the idea of me going out there, and neither did I, but we had to. I would have liked nothing more than to have the guys back, and send one of them, or even to just send Greg — but he was lost in the desert just like them, and thinking about him and dwelling on him wasn’t going to solve anything. He’d been one of my first thoughts after landing, but this wasn’t about being a good friend or giving a shit. It was about surviving, and that required
compartmentalization. Either the heat would be too much for his core and he’d have burned out not long after landing, or it wasn’t, and he’d stay alive for as long as it took for me to find him. Either way, it wasn’t worth thinking about just then.
I checked my watch, now synched to the planet’s rotational period, and scowled. “I’m not arguing with you, Everett. I’m going.” I leaned in and kissed her again, lightly — quickly. There wasn’t time for anything else. She followed me as I pulled away, her fingers raking down my arm. And then I was gone.
My boots hit the growing pile of dirt under the ramp and I sprang forward, taking off at pace. I was only going to have one shot at this, and I had to leave everything I had out there. I was panting after the first step, low on oxygen and dry as a bone. The sun, low as it was, still beat down, the force of its rays palpable through the thin atmosphere and hazy clouds.
I checked my watch again, staying in the trench and heading for the trees. They were only a couple of hundred meters away, but my feet felt heavy, the pack weighing me down, even though it was empty. I tried not to think about how heavy it was going to be when it was filled with water. Making the journey weighed down with it all would have been insane to attempt in the middle of the day, and even now the heat was making it tough. It was like breathing water, but I had to push on.
I had to force myself not to look back at Everett. I knew that if I did, I’d turn around and run back to the ship. And if I did that, we’d both die. I was going now because I knew I had a little strength left. By tomorrow, it’d be all gone, and I’d never make it.
I gritted my teeth, breathed deeply, and pushed forward, the empty bottles clacking against each other on my belt.
The trees loomed, the ground hard underfoot, and then their shade swallowed me, welcomed and dreadful all at once.
I reached into my jacket and unfastened the clip on my holster, just in case.
A thin fog was starting to spread over the ground as the sunlight died among the trunks. The air was cooler already, but no easier to breathe.
I checked my watch again — thirty-two minutes to sundown. Problem was, I’d already lost sight of the ship through the trees and I couldn’t even hear the stream yet.
I’d made the judgment based on what I remembered of the size of the forest, but as I threaded my way deeper, I realized I couldn’t really recall much about it at all, and that I might just have fucked up.
I checked my watch again, stole a glance over my shoulder, and picked up the pace. Thirty minutes. It wasn’t enough time.
5
The noise was faint at first, distant, and all around. I kept my heading. The stream ran through the middle of the trees; it was what sustained them, the moisture from it. So long as I kept going straight, I’d hit it… Eventually.
Something rustled in the dried and fallen leaves behind me and I twisted, drawing and leveling my pistol. The empty bottles knocked and settled on my belt, but nothing moved. Whatever it had been, it was tiny, rustling beneath the layer of fallen foliage. A little rodent, or big insect maybe.
I sighed and pushed my Arcram back into the holster, checking my watch. Twenty-six minutes to sundown. I’d wasted fourteen already, and I wasn’t even at the stream yet.
I stood and turned back, then froze. The water was burbling quietly, the noise echoing off the rock-hard trunks. I adjusted my direction and then adjusted again. I couldn’t tell if I was still heading the right way. How much had I twisted to face the noise? One eighty? Less? More?
I swallowed and checked my watch again. Twenty-five minutes. I didn’t have time for this.
I took off, quickening my pace. The temperature was steadily dropping and I could feel the chill on my skin, the sweat that tried to cool me now betraying me instead. I shivered and kept moving, straining my ears to follow the sound of the flowing water.
The light was fading fast and with every step it got darker and darker, my footing less and less sure. The fog was starting to thicken, too, the air growing musty and humid as the trees started to exhale with the dusk, releasing moisture into the forest.
I was shuffling and stumbling, breathing hard. My toe caught a raised root, and I tripped, sprawling forwards.
My hands plunged into the fog, my heart hammering and squeezing, pushing oxygen into my thick, dried up blood.
I stayed there for a few seconds, trying to catch my breath. This was turning into a shit show. My heavy panting blasted holes in the fog between my hands, slowly starting to settle.
Twenty four minutes. I had to get moving.
I dug my fingers into the leaf-covered ground and pushed myself up. I could catch my breath when I got to the water. I’d have to rest there anyway, to fill the bottles.
I growled, cursed myself, and then kicked forward. Following my ears instead of my eyes. The woods were deceiving, to say the least.
By the time I finally started to feel the crush of fresh grass under my heels, the light was all but gone from the forest and the eerie feeling of eyes upon me had set in once more.
I broke through the bank of fog over the reeds and sloshed up to my knees in water, breathing hard.
Watch check. Twenty-two minutes. I had to move.
The rucksack hit the water and I fumbled for the zipper. My fingers were fat, my muscles deprived of oxygen. In the wet, they slid over the bag, searching for it. I got hold and pulled. Jammed. I pulled harder. “Come on!” The camel-packs shot into the air as the bag flew open, landing in the fog and disappearing with a series of quiet slaps as they hit the surface. I lurched forward for them, splashing, the bottles on my waist knocking like bongos.
The fog drifted and swirled as I scrabbled in the muddied water, searching frantically for them. With nothing inside, the rubber bags sank.
I balled my fists and slammed them into the water. “Goddammit!”
I was panting again, my breath misting in front of my face. It was cold, and getting colder.
I forced myself to stop, to think, to breathe. Watch check — twenty minutes. Shit. I’d spent half the time already, and I hadn’t even started filling yet.
I pulled the bottles off my belt, unhooking the strap that I’d threaded through the handles. I hastily flipped the top of the first off, the lid hanging on by a rubber cord, and plunged it under the surface, listening as the bubbles gurgled out of it. When they stopped I pulled it up, only to see the water inside was thick and brown. Shit. I’d stirred up all the silt when I chased the bags. Fuck.
I turned to look upstream. The water around me was gently flowing through a pool. It was all murky now, the fog slowly creeping back over. I needed to get further up, where the water was moving.
I started wading, pouring out the dirty water as I went, one hand on the bottle, the other holding the strap so the others didn’t fall. I couldn’t afford to lose them too.
My clothes clung to my skin, dragging me backward with the current. I could feel the last of my energy sapping with every struggling step.
The edge of the pool neared, shaded in near darkness. An incline lay ahead, clear water gently burbling down it.
I sank to my knees again, the running water sloshing around my waist. The bottles knocked.
I pushed the mouth of the first into it and watched the clear liquid rush in. Yes. Quickly.
I glanced down at my watch on my hand still holding the strap. Eighteen minutes. Fuck.
The first bottle ran over. Good.
I pulled it up and thumbed the lid back on. I could feel myself starting to shiver as I shoved it between my teeth, biting down on the handle as I grabbed the next one off the strap and hooked it back onto my belt. I shoved that one into the water as well, pressing it against the rocky bottom of the stream, pinning it there. I grabbed the third one with my free hand and shoved it under next to the second, aware that with every passing second I was losing sight of what I was doing. Night was closing in fast.
I racked my brains, looking down at my two used hands, feeling the first
bottle between my teeth. How the hell was I going to do this? Hook them back on? I cursed into the bottle handle and pulled the two full bottles up. Another watch check threw some of the water over my chest, but it didn’t matter. Sixteen minutes.
I stood up, slipping a little on the algae covered rocks of the incline and pushed the bottles closed. I had to make sure these ones were. I couldn’t risk dropping any. I had maybe a little over four liters in them after the last spill, but it would be enough. It’d see us through another two days with some decent rationing.
I made for the bank, my knees churning in the fog. When my toes hit the muddy edge, I stumbled. The fog rushed up at me and my elbows splatted in the soft wet dirt. I was gripping the bottle in my teeth so hard I nearly bit straight through it.
I yelled into the handle, dragging myself to my knees. With a sweep of my arms, the fog dissipated and slithered away like it was retreating from my swipes.
The rucksack hit the ground in front of me, still hanging off one shoulder, and I spat the first bottle into the open mouth, a black hole in a wider black forest. I dumped the second bottle in, switched the third into my other hand and threw that one in too. It took three attempts to get hold of the zipper, but finally, I got it closed.
I launched myself up, suddenly aware that I needed to get the fuck out of the forest, and swung the rucksack over my shoulder.
I only made it one step before the weight of the swinging bag bowled me over. I felt light, like an origami imitation of myself. The weight, scarcely more than four kilos — barely more than a decent rifle — took me off my feet. I staggered sideways and clapped into the knobbled trunk of one of the trees, spinning off it.
My shoulder sang with pain. Despite being much better after the stem-gel, hitting it reminded me it’d only been two days since I’d dislocated it.