Under Darkness (A Sci-Fi Thriller) (Scott Standalones Book 1)

by Jasper T. Scott

  Their lander twisted around as it approached the empty space and retro thrusters fired, pressing them into their seats. Gibson craned his neck to keep their destination in sight. The honeycomb gaps between pods snapped into focus, and he saw them for what they were—a transparent scaffolding around the pods, a deck. Their pod slid slowly into a hexagonal berth... then snapped suddenly into place with a ringing clunk. Magnetic docking clamps? Gibson wondered as he peered through the transparent walls of the pod, staring hard at the see-through deck that wound between and around their landers. The inside of the hangar was dimly lit, no brighter than a full moon. Gibson caught a glimpse of shadowy beings coming around the corner of an adjacent pod, walking toward them on... two legs? Walking? Gibson couldn’t detect any kind of gravity, and he remembered that Crawlers preferred to walk on four legs, not two, but before he could get a good look, the walls of their lander grew opaque.

  “Looks like we’ve got incoming,” Gibson said as he looked away—

  Only to find himself staring straight down the barrel of Dekker’s rifle.

  “What the hell, Deks? Mind your sights!” He tried to bat Dekker’s rifle out of line, but Dekker grabbed Gibson’s hand and twisted it painfully to one side. Cold fear coursed through Gibson.

  “I am sorry for the deception,” Dekker said. “But we need your help.”

  “We? Who the fuck is we, Dekker?”

  Dekker smiled. “We, your new rulers.”

  Chapter 57

  Don crept to the living room window, pasted himself to the wall beside it, and then peeked around the corner with his lantern. “Clear,” he said.

  Beth held her pistol in shaking hands, her eyes darting and wide.

  “Wait here,” Don whispered to her as he walked by. He signaled to the commander, then to the front door. Wilde nodded and turned to the door with his rifle raised.

  Don edged past the kitchen and down the hall to the back door. Unable to just stand there, Beth took a few steps to follow him.

  Don came within a few paces of the door, then froze, his head turned, as if listening. Beth hurried up behind him. “What is it?” she whispered.

  He glanced back at her—

  A bang sounded, and the back door flew open in a hail of splinters. A pale monster leapt through with four bony arms reaching. Jagged glass-like teeth parted. Don opened fire. A handful of rounds rattled out before the creature knocked him over and pinned him to the ground.

  Beth backed up quickly, aiming her pistol at the Crawler.

  “Shoot it!” Don cried as he wrestled with the alien.

  Beth pulled the trigger, the gun kicked hard against her hands, and the bullet whistled harmlessly over the alien’s shoulder. She fired again and this time hit it in the shoulder with a sickening thwup. The alien squealed and partly collapsed as the leg below the shoulder gave way.

  “Again!” Don screamed—then gasped as alien claws bit into his shoulder.

  “Get out of the way!” Commander Wilde pushed her aside and brought his rifle to bear with a rattling roar. The alien shrieked, writhing and lashing the air. Failing to reach the commander, it reared up on hind legs and crouched.

  Pale fluid streamed from the alien’s torso in dozens of places, but it just kept going. Rear legs bent, and the monster sprang forward, knocking the commander over.

  Just a few feet away, Beth brought her gun to bear once more, this time aiming for one of the four black eyes at the top of the Crawler’s head. She fired twice in quick succession, and the Crawler collapsed with a shuddering sigh, pinning both Commander Wilde and Don beneath its bulk.

  As the creature exhaled, it shrank dramatically until it was barely larger than her.

  Commander Wilde rolled out from under it, flinging thick, colorless alien blood from his hands and wiping it from his cheeks. “Nice shooting,” he said through a grimace as he struggled to rise. Beth went to lend him a hand.

  “We have to get out of here now!” Don put in.

  “Agreed,” Commander Wilde said.

  “What about my dad? And Ashley?” Beth asked. “We can’t just leave them here!”

  “We can put Ashley in the back of the Humvee,” Don replied. “But your father will have to stay. He’s a liability.”

  “But—”

  “Kid, wake up, he almost got us all killed! You included.”

  Bill’s laughter trickled to their ears from the hall. “You’ll never escape the island!”

  Don growled and hefted his rifle in a one-handed grip. “Just be glad we don’t shoot him in the head before we leave,” he said and shouldered roughly past Beth.

  Afraid that he might change his mind, Beth followed him and the commander to Ashley’s side. They removed the catheter from her wrist and helped her to a sitting position.

  “Where are we going?” Ashley asked sleepily.

  Don grabbed her under the arms and Commander Wilde grabbed her legs, leaving their rifles to dangle by the shoulder straps.

  Beth stared uncertainly at Ashley’s pale face. “She doesn’t look too good. Are you sure we should move her?”

  “No choice,” Don replied. “And she’ll look worse with her guts ripped out by a Crawler.”

  Don and the commander hoisted her up and carried her to the front door. Beth hurried after them.

  “Door,” Don grunted, nodding to Beth.

  “Wait,” Commander Wilde said. “We don’t know if there’s more of them out there. I’d better check first.”

  Don nodded, and the commander set Ashley’s feet down, leaving Don to carry her full weight. He leaned heavily against the armchair beside the door for support.

  Wilde grabbed a lantern hanging from the roof and then cracked the door open. Holding the lantern in one hand and his rifle in the other, he peered outside. “Clear so far,” he whispered.

  Then he stepped out the front door. Beth waited, her ears straining for the slightest noise, but all she heard was her pounding heart and ragged breathing.

  The seconds dragged like hours. Finally, the door creaked, inching open—

  Beth aimed her gun at the door.

  The commander stepped back inside. “Seems clear,” he whispered.

  Beth let out a shaky breath and slowly lowered her gun. Commander Wilde passed the light to her and grabbed Ashley’s legs.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Beth, you lead the way,” Don said.

  “Me?”

  “You’ve got the light. And a free hand to shoot.”

  Beth gave in with a scowl and went outside. The thunder of war had grown sporadic and distant, leaving the crickets and bugs to fill the night with noise. Beth led the way across the dry, crunching leaves and jutting roots that passed for Don’s front yard. The Humvee sat in the shadows beneath tall trees, broken wedges of glass gleaming darkly where the windshield should have been.

  They reached the vehicle, and Commander Wilde set Ashley’s feet down again to open the trunk. Beth watched the trees, sweeping the lantern around with her gun. Ashley groaned weakly, drawing Beth’s gaze back in time to see Commander Wilde and Don laying her in the back of the truck.

  “All right, let’s go,” Commander Wilde said, and slammed the metal hatch.

  A flicker of movement caught Beth’s gaze, and she saw her father hopping out onto the front step of the cabin.

  “To hell with it,” Don said and brought his rifle up to his shoulder.

  “No!” Beth jumped in front of Don’s rifle, putting herself between him and her father.

  “Hello?” Bill called out to them. “Is anyone out there?”

  “Get out of the way!” Don said.

  “Leave him alone!” Beth replied.

  “Pack it in, Don!” Commander Wilde added from the front seat of the Humvee. The engine roared to life a split second later.

  “Commander Wilde?” Bill called into the darkness. “Is that you, sir?”

  “Sir?” Don echoed. “He’s trying to be funny again!”

  �
�It’s me! Corporal Gibson!”

  “Gibson?” Commander Wilde echoed.

  * * *

  —Half an Hour Ago, On The Alien Spaceship—

  The hatch opened to reveal a pair of pale-skinned monsters standing on two legs. Corporal Gibson gasped at the sight of them. “Those aren’t Crawlers.” These creatures wore shimmering suits. Only their heads were exposed, and they had four of them bobbing at the end of long, serpentine necks. They reminded Gibson of the mythical Hydra. Each head had two pale, silvery eyes, and evidently controlled its own pair of skinny, three-jointed arms which branched from the base of the necks.

  Which head controls the legs? Gibson wondered. The faces were angular with slightly protruding snouts and dark slits for nostrils. Transparent needle-like teeth protruded from the upper jaw, overlapping a matching set of teeth in the lower one.

  Dekker backed out of the pod to join the Hydra on the see-through deck, his aim never wavering from Gibson as he did so. A Hydra opened one of its mouths and spoke to him in a guttural voice of watery growls, clicks, and trills.

  Dekker nodded along, as if he understood perfectly. “Pass the rifle out slowly,” he said. “Butt first.”

  “You’re with them?” Gibson asked as he passed his SCAR out the hatch. He was too shocked by the appearance of the Hydras and Dekker’s mysterious allegiance to them to try anything. “How?”

  “You’ll see,” Dekker replied, taking the rifle and slipping the strap over his shoulder. Now two barrels pointed at Gibson.

  “Now the Berettas,” Dekker indicated.

  Once again Gibson gave up his weapons without a fight, but he still had a belt full of frag grenades and C4. All he had to do was pull a pin and it would be over.

  “Now the ordnance,” Dekker said.

  Gibson’s fingers hesitated over the silver loop of a frag grenade’s pin.

  “Don’t even think about it!” Dekker yelled, raising both rifles threateningly.

  Gibson’s hand opened, and he began removing the belt instead. One grenade wasn’t going to take down a ship the size of Texas. But there might be a better opportunity later. If nothing else, he wanted to know what all of this was about.

  He passed the explosives through the hatch along with his combat knife and spare magazines, but he didn’t volunteer the extra blade he’d tucked into his right boot. Maybe Dekker hadn’t seen him hide it while they were in the missile range’s armory.

  “Now your turn,” Dekker indicated. “Slowly.”

  He didn’t know about the hidden knife. Gibson’s heart pounded with the thrill of that small victory. He untangled himself from the web-like restraints and drifted weightlessly toward the transparent floor where Dekker and the two Hydras stood. As his hands reached through the threshold of the hatch, the three of them backed away, and Gibson passed through a disorienting transition from zero gravity inside the pod to a significant fraction of Earth gravity on the deck. He wound up having to crawl out of the lander. He struggled to stand under the sudden weight of his body and remaining gear.

  Gibson looked around the alien hangar, then glowered at the Hydras. “What do you want?”

  “The same thing anyone wants,” Dekker replied for them. “Peace, prosperity, and a good life.”

  “Peace.” Gibson snorted and shook his head.

  “The war will be short-lived. It was a regrettable necessity. Your government was about to attack us.”

  “Hang on—you started the war with the Chinese?”

  Dekker nodded. “Of course.”

  Gibson gaped at him, unable to believe what he’d just heard.

  “But as I said, it will not last long. Once the symbionts finish spreading through your population, only the immunes will seek conflict, and they are few in number. It will not be long before your planet is united under a common purpose.”

  “Our planet?” Gibson echoed. “It’s your planet, too! And united under what purpose? Fighting them?” Gibson’s eyes flicked to the Hydras.

  “No, serving them. Serving us.”

  Gibson felt the acid burn of bile rising in his throat. He cleared it and spat in Dekker’s face.

  Dekker just smiled. “It is unfortunate that some of you are immune. We had hoped to avoid pointless strife during this transition.”

  “Fuck you!” Gibson said. One of the Hydras trilled something and then stepped forward to grab him with eight arms. Those bony limbs with their dainty hands looked fragile—easy to snap. Gibson resisted, but the Hydra were stronger than they looked.

  One of the Hydra’s heads hissed in Gibson’s ear, and another snapped its jaws in front of his face. That one gave him a look that made him shiver—silvery eyes wide, lips peeling back in a grin around needle-sharp teeth. The other two heads looked on, swaying hypnotically as if to unseen music. Sharp claws at the ends of spindly fingers bit through Gibson’s uniform, and then he was pushed along. The Hydras wound through the labyrinthine hangar past countless landing pods. Dekker walked beside them, keeping one of the two rifles trained on Gibson at all times.

  “The Crawlers aren’t the real invaders,” Gibson said.

  “You’re surprised? Did they seem capable of building something this magnificent?” Dekker gestured to the yawning hangar.

  Gibson bit his tongue and walked on in silence. The Hydra holding him stank like a dead fish, but that was the least of his problems.

  At last, they came to the end of the hangar and walked through a broad pair of doors into a yawning corridor no better lit than the hangar had been. The silvery glow radiated from a long strip along the ceiling that reminded Gibson of old office lights. Everything else, the walls and floor, were glossy, pale, and colorless—all silvers, whites, and grays.

  Before long, the Hydras stopped and turned him toward another set of doors. One of them reached out and placed a palm against a glossy black panel beside the doors. The doors parted to reveal a glass-like capsule and rows of strange, high-backed chairs with wide headrests. Black webbing like Gibson had seen in the pods draped each chair. Ahead of the capsule, visible through the clear sides and front, lay a long tunnel with multiple forks curving away in all directions. Gibson realized that this was some kind of mass transit system. He supposed they’d have to have something like that on a ship this big.

  The Hydra holding him pushed him into the capsule and forced him into the nearest seat. It barked and trilled something at him in a voice that alternated between guttural and musical, then grabbed the webbed restraints to either side of his chair in four hands for emphasis.

  Dekker translated, “Strap in if you don’t want to become a puddle of jelly on the windshield.”

  Gibson looped his arms through the restrains as he’d done in the landing pod. Dekker snorted as if that wasn’t how they were supposed to be used. “Good enough,” he said and took a seat behind Gibson.

  The Hydras sat together in the back. Gibson twisted around to see Dekker wrapping the webbing around himself, attaching each half to metal hooks on opposite sides of the chair. Gibson did his best to copy Dekker.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked, just as the doors to the corridor and the capsule slid shut.

  “To the control room,” Dekker replied.

  Before Gibson could inquire further, the capsule lurched into motion, accelerating so rapidly that it knocked the wind out of him. Gibson struggled to breathe. Gasping for air, he watched dark spots gathering before his eyes. Then came the first fork in the tunnel, and the capsule darted left. Moments later, it leapt up and fell in behind another capsule. They raced along, still picking up speed. Gibson was convinced they’d broken the sound barrier several times, but no sonic booms had sounded from either capsule. The tunnels had to be vacuum sealed. Why fight air resistance if you didn’t have to?

  Half an hour must have passed before their capsule finished twisting and turning through the ship. Gibson felt it slow, then stop, and the doors slid open. He fought to un-hook his webbed restraints and rose on shaking legs. O
ne of the Hydras came loping up and grabbed him with eight spindly arms. Eight silver eyes stared fixedly at him, watching, and those needle-sharp teeth were a constant reminder that these aliens were not some pacifistic race of herbivores. They were born predators. Perhaps the only reason they hadn’t invaded in force was that they didn’t need to. Winning over the hearts and minds of humanity and making them into willing slaves would be far better than simply killing all of them.

  The Hydra holding Gibson pushed him along, and Dekker kept both rifles trained on him once more. The second Hydra led the way through the open doors of the transport, and they emerged in a vast chamber with thousands of desks and chairs arrayed in long rows, with aisles running between. It was like the CIC of the Port Royal, but on a far larger scale. Some of those control stations were empty, while others were populated by more of the four-headed Hydras. Gibson noted that the monstrous four-legged Crawlers were nowhere to be seen. He supposed that they were also slaves of the Hydras.

  As they walked down one of the aisles between control stations, Gibson got a closer look at what was happening in the room. Each of the Hydras sitting at those stations was perched in an egg-like chair with high, curving headrests for each of their four heads. They wore glossy black helmets on their heads that covered their eyes, while their arms and hands remained free to drape down their torsos like a horrid form of dreadlocks. Thick cables snaked from each of the helmets to four distinct sections of each control station, and above those connections were ghostly, holographic images of people with two legs and arms and just one head—humans.

  Suddenly Gibson understood Dekker’s inexplicable treachery, and the isolated occurrences of odd behavior he’d witnessed over the past months—people making the same motions and gestures in suspicious synchrony, as if somehow communicating signals to each other’s brains. The reason was evident now. Four heads per Hydra meant they could control four different human avatars each. The people in the holograms were all being remote-controlled by the Hydras.

  “So this is your big plan?” Gibson asked. “Use us like puppets and live vicariously through us?”