Bill 5 - on the Planet of Zombie Vampires (13 page)

“If we weren't in such mortal danger, it would be interesting to explore that phenomenon,” said Caine. “Perhaps it is some sort of a genetic memory. I seem to recall that elephants were very fond of stomping on mice. Of course, since our very lives are on the line, we will have to postpone any investigation until a later date, and simply be thankful for your quick reactions.”

Bill stomped another alien.

“This way,” shouted Tootsie from the door. “Everybody follow me. We've found what's left of Curly.”

“Watch your step,” cried Tootsie, leading the way. “There are aliens everywhere.”

“What kind?” asked Caine.

“The loathsome, dangerous, deadly kind,” snapped Tootsie. “What other kind is there?”

“By 'what kind' I meant that I was referring to the stage of their life cycle,” pontificated the android.

“Why? You want more samples?”

“No,” demurred Caine. “I just want to know if I should be ready to brush them away from my face or hop out of their way.”

“Mostly what we've got is the scuttling stage,” said Tootsie, turning left down a dark, twisting corridor with a parked forklift with sinister shadows. “But some of the bigger ones are humping around there too. Larry fried one of the Curly-sized ones up with his handy flamethrower. It made a real big mess.”

“What's wit' Curly?” asked Bruiser, clubbing a scuttler with Slasher's pommel. “I didn't much like him. But seeing he was our only chance maybe getting outta here, well, I kinda miss him.”

“It's just too horrible to explain,” explained Tootsie with a delicate shudder. “Wait and see. He's just through here, in what used to be the nuclear reactor room.”

“Used to be?” asked Bill, but before Tootsie could answer they were inside, and his eyes and nose told him all he wanted to know.

The huge room was filled with hundreds of small aliens that scuttled around in the cavern like fantastically ugly bees in an alien hive. But by far the most horrible thing was that Bill now knew what had happened to the rest of the crew from the communication station.

They hung on the wall like sides of beef, partially encased in weblike cocoons. They were mummies now, their life force long since sucked dry.

“Curly's over this way,” said Tootsie and they dodged and stomped scuttlers to the far side of the room where Larry and Moe were keeping the aliens away from a fresh cocoon.

“He's moving,” said Bill.

“They've been munching on him,” said Moe. “Look at his ear.” For once Bill could tell the clones apart; Larry had the flamethrower, Moe didn't, and Curly was the almost-mummy.

“But he's still got most of his life force,” said Bruiser, bashing two scuttlers with a single blow from Slasher. “I t'ink he's trying to talk.”

“It's hard to understand him with all that webbing covering his mouth,” said Caine. “I believe he's either saying SAVE ME or KILL ME or FOR BOWB'S SAKE DO SOMETHING. At least that's what it sounds like to me.”

“Not to me,” said Bill. “It sounds more like HELP! Let's get him out.”

“Maybe not,” said Bruiser. “If he wants us to kill him, maybe we should. I'm good at dat!”

“You been sniffing spores, Bruiser?” asked Rambette. “We can't kill the only one of us who knows how to fix the autopilot.”

“Ahh, I forgot,” said Bruiser sheepishly. “It's just dat I like to use Slasher.”

“Well then, use Slasher to help me cut him loose,” said Rambette, hacking and slicing at the cocoon.

While the two were up to their elbows in bits of cocoon, Bill's elephant foot embarked on a reflexive stomping spree, carrying him all around the room.

“If this weren't so life-threateningly dangerous, I'd find it most fascinating,” said Caine, clubbing an alien with his flashlight. “This seems to be their primary feeding place.”

“It seems to be a place I would like to get out of,” said Bill, hopping away. “How's it going, Rambette?”

“We got Curly,” she called. “Head for the door!”

“I'm heading where my foot takes me,” cried Bill, stomping another scuttler and setting off towards a group of aliens crawling over the control board. “I may be here for years.”

There were aliens everywhere, sadistically scuttling and nauseatingly nipping. For some unfathomable reason only the dog seemed untouched. The despicable creatures gave Barfer a wide berth.

“We gotta get outta here,” shouted Bruiser, following Bill around the room, happily putting Slasher to good use. “Stop runnin' away!”

“I'm not — my foot is!” cried Bill, frantically following his foot to another cluster of scuttlers, losing his balance and falling into the crackling cocoon debris.

“Help me!” implored Tootsie. “My right arm's stuck in this cocoon!”

“Both of my right arms are stuck,” shouted Bill.

Bruiser pulled Tootsie and Bill from their crunchy captivity and hefted Bill onto his shoulder. Bill's foot continued to try to stomp aliens, but since it couldn't reach the ground all it did was pound Bruiser on the back.

“Close the door!” cried Rambette as they tumbled out of the infested room. “Lock it!”

“What good is that going to do?” inquired Caine “We are dealing with incredibly powerful creatures.”

“Shut your defeatist android yob,” suggested Tootsie, pulling adhesive fragments off her right arm. “These creatures are worse than Chingers. We're all going to die!”

“There's a forklift parked down the corridor,” said Caine. “Does anyone know how to work it?”

“Me,” said Bill. “It's just like the one I drove back on the supply station.”

“Then grab it and pile everything in sight that's heavy and bulky in front of the door,” suggested Rambette. “Maybe that'll keep them in.”

Bill started the forklift and in a few minutes had managed to build a remarkably tall stack of heavy junk in front of the door. They only saw two aliens during the operation, both of which were quickly dispatched by Slasher before Bill's foot had time spring into action and drag him off the forklift.

“That ought to do it,” said Rambette. “Let's head back to the ship. Don't forget to bring all the repair supplies. I'm not coming back here for anything.”

In their absence Uhuru had fashioned a new door to the docking tube, welding together chunks of heavy scrap metal. He was reluctant to open it until they convinced him that they were not harboring any aliens.

“I'm covering you with my flamethrower when you come in,” he said, opening the door a crack. “Anything that scuttles gets fried.”

“Nice flamethrower,” said Larry as they filed into the ship. “It's lighter than mine.”

“I made it out of the toaster,” he said. “In times like these we must improvise. How's Curly?”

“A little chewed on, mostly in the ear department, but basically he's okay,” said Moe. “At least as okay as he ever was which, P.S., is not saying very much.”

“Someone has got to guard this door at all times,” said Uhuru, still wearing his spacesuit. “We've got to keep the monsters at bay.”

“I'll take first watch,” said Larry. “While you get Curly patched up.”

Upon examination in the control room, Curly's physical injuries turned out to be relatively minor, mainly consisting of a nibbled-on ear and a lot of ankle bites. His psychological condition, however, left a lot to be desired.

“You know how when something real bad happens you never remember it?” he asked as Caine wound a bandage around the victim's head.

“Sure,” said Rambette. “It happens all the time. In total war you must expect anything. But, war may be hell but we must go through hell to defeat the evil of the Chingers...”

“Belt up!” Bill hinted. “You sound like a recruiting sergeant.”

“I was! How bright of you to notice.”

“I don't remember what happens to me after two beers,” bragged Bruiser. “But I usually wake up in jail.”

“It's a protective mechanism that helps people deal with traumatic events,” explained Caine, tying the bandage with a fancy bow. “The mind trickily blocks threatening memories out as a form of protection.”

“Well, my mind didn't block a single thing out this time,” said Curly slowly. “I remember every horrible detail of that appalling experience. An alien nightmare! All those gnashing teeth! Those claws! That terrifying darkness filled with repulsive presences.”

“You'll still be able to fix the autopilot, won't you?” asked Tootsie anxiously.

“Maybe,” he muttered. “As long as I don't have alien flashback. I get the creeping horribles when I remember what happened.”

“Stay calm,” suggested Bill. “You're safe now. At least I think you are.”

“That's a big help,” said Tootsie, attending to the nips on her ankles. “We should all project positive attitudes.”

“Look who's talking about attitude,” said Rambette, taking off her boot and examining her wounded foot. “You ought to take yours back to the factory. Always moaning about how we're all going to die.”

“It's probably true,” moaned Tootsie.

“We're banged up, but still alive,” said Bruiser. “I got lotsa bites myself, but got in plenty licks too, you betcha!”

“We all got wounded but Barfer,” said Bill as the dog walked in from the okra room munching on some buds.

“Maybe they don't like dogs,” said Blight.

“If they like androids, they'll like dogs,” said Caine. “It must be something else.”

They all stared at Barfer, but he looked just as ugly and offensive as he always did.

“We gotta have more weapons,” said Bruiser. “Heavy artillery, t'ings like dat.”

“I'll make a flamethrower out of the microwave,” said Moe. “Burn the bastards up!”

“You leave my microwave alone,” snapped Uhuru. “That's reserved for food.”

“Would you rather I made one out of the officers' urinals?” Moe eagerly asked. “I can build a flamethrower out of almost anything.”

“How about bombs?” asked Bruiser. “Flamethrowers are okay, but bombs is great. Boom! Flying guts, gouts of fur, bits of alien!”

“I was thinking about something with a little more pinpoint accuracy,” Rambette said. “Uhuru, can you make us some sort of hand grenades?”

“I need explosives for that,” he said. “Lots of explosives.”

“So make some,” said Rambette. “I seem to recall you've done that before.”

“Gunpowder,” said Uhuru. “A primitive explosive from the dawn of time. I heard about it on a program once. It takes sulfur and charcoal.”

“How interesting — we've got that in the potting room,” said Caine. “Just don't take it all. I need the sulfur to adjust the pH of the okra's soil. It won't do to have the wrong pH. The okra might turn out even more bitter than it already is.”

“But then I'll need potassium nitrate,” said Uhuru. “Where will I get that?”

“In the kitchen,” suggested Bill. “I know because I was going to be a Technical Fertilizer Operator....”

“It's right next to the sugar, I suppose,” Uhuru interrupted sarcastically.

“It's the same as saltpeter,” said Bill. “Every trooper knows that the food is laced with saltpeter. It's supposed to keep our sex drive down. Even though it doesn't work too well.”

“Is that true?” Moe asked Captain Blight.

“Well, it's just a little additive for the enlisted men,” explained the captain. “Don't want them too raunchy on long trips.”

“If you want some magnesium to spice up the mix, pull apart some flares,” said Caine. “You will have an exceedingly explosive mixture.”

“Sounds like a winner. I'll get on that,” said Uhuru. “But we'll have to divide up the work. There's a lot to do. Who got the spare fuses?”

“I did,” said Rambette.

“Okay, Bill starts on the fuses. The main bank's all blown and the circuit to the kitchen is giving us trouble each time I turn on the oven.”

“Bill can drive a forklift, too,” said Tootsie. “You should have seen him moving all that heavy junk.”

“Good,” said Uhuru. “We can use you for that, Bill. We need to move some steel plates out of the repair docks. It's a lucky thing we're on a repair ship. There are lots of vital parts here.”

“I'd prefer to be on a killer-grade destroyer,” said Bill. “That way we'd have what we need in the way of weapons.”

“We've got to make do with what's at hand,” said Uhuru. “No sense lamenting over what we don't have. Now, who brought back the silver screens?”

“Larry did,” said Moe.

“No he didn't,” said Tootsie. “He got the computer boards. I was with him the whole time. It wasn't on his list.”

“Well, it was on somebody's list,” said Uhuru. “Which dirty bowb forgot them? We need them to repair the shields. We can't lift off unless the shields are working.”

Bill looked at his list. There it was: TWO ANODIZED SILVER SCREENS (2).

“I was busy,” explained Bill. “I guess I forgot.”

“We were all busy,” snarled Rambette. “And the rest of us managed to get our shopping done while we were dodging aliens.”

“You'll have to go back, Bill,” said Uhuru grimly. “We need those screens.”

Bill worked hard with the fuses so he didn't even have to think about the screen problem. It was comforting, specialized work that he had trained hard to master. Put fuse in, take fuse out. The most skilled part was reading the little numbers stamped on the end of each fuse. The numbers were always faint and nearly impossible to make out. Bill was proud of his technical skill. Actually, he kind of liked fuses. They either worked or they didn't. Fuses had very little middle ground, and they didn't waffle around much. Besides, these were small fuses, not like the huge ones he'd had to manhandle in the battleships. As an added benefit, fuses were almost always located away from the places most people went, so he had some time to himself.

He was enjoying the quiet, moronic work, testing an entire bank of fuses, when Rambette came into the fuse chamber and started talking to him.

“I've got wire splicing detail,” she said, brandishing one of her sharpest knives and cutting the insulation off a strand of orange cable. “This ship is pretty banged up.”

“Tell me about it. It's a good thing for all of you that I'm a skilled fusetender,” he said humbly. “I think I've got enough blown fuses to fill the station's basement.”

Rambette shuddered delicately. “Don't mention that place to me — I still got nightmares.”