Bill 5 - on the Planet of Zombie Vampires (17 page)

“How does it work?”

“You press the button like this,” explained Curly, leaning over and pushing a green button on the side of the box. “It's set up to respond to all life-forms, but I have a subprogram in it that directs it specifically to okra-smelling life-forms. Right now it's set at maximum range. All these little dots down here are us. That green dot way over there is Barfer.”

“What are all those dots?” Bill asked.

“Aliens,” admitted Caine.

“There sure are a lot of them,” said Bill with shivering trepidation. “And most of them are between me and Barfer.”

“It can beep, too, if you want,” said Curly proudly, quickly moving on. “But there's so many aliens out there it'd be beeping all the time. I'm not sure I like that.”

“It's been super nice knowing you, Bill,” said Tootsie, giving him a hug. “I just want to tell you I think what you're doing is real noble and unselfish — I feel like crying — even if it is incredibly stupid and probably the last thing you'll ever do. Few things are as beautiful as the love between a boy and his dog.”

“You don't want maybe take Slasher, do you?” asked Bruiser. “It maybe slow you down and da aliens would eat you. But I guess I gotta make offer, even if don't much want to.”

“That's okay, Bruiser,” said Bill. “I guess I ought to travel light and fast.”

“You're right about the fast part,” said Christianson. “We're kind of anxious to get out of here.”

“Take the CB radio, too,” said Caine, clipping it to Bill's belt. “That way you can give us good, reliable firsthand descriptions of your close encounters for my report. And if you have any last words, we'll be able to get them down just the way they came out of your dying mouth.”

“That's real considerate of you,” snarled Bill, checking the fuel level on his flamethrower and wanting to try it out on Caine.

“I'll name my next hybrid okra variety after your memory,” said Captain Blight. “Abelmoschus heroicus billus. That has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”

“I have to get moving,” Bill said, stepping back into the docking tube and firing a couple blasts into the darkness ahead just for good luck.

The anteroom, having taken a good many licks recently, was a pile of smoldering rubble. Parts of dead aliens and ruined spacesuits lay scattered among the scorched debris like joint butts after a party. Most importantly, nothing was moving. Bill adjusted the tracker's range so that he was at one end of the screen and the green dot that was Barfer was at the other. Depressingly, there were far too many alien dots in between.

Bill eased up to the entrance to the main corridor and took a quick and careful peek down the hall. There were too many aliens scrambling around that alley of damnation to count, too many to take out with anything short of a tank loaded with tactical nukes. There had to be another way around.

The air ducts! Bill blessed the unforeseen foresight of the nameless engineer who had designed such handy tunnels so cleverly connecting all parts of the station. He made a pile of broken spacesuits and climbed up to the nearest vent, prying the cover off and pulling himself up with difficulty.

Right away Bill discovered a couple of problems. The air ducts were too damned small and he could barely squeeze through them. Turning around would be impossible once he got started. He now cursed the bowbing engineer who didn't design them a little bigger so a man could sneak around in comfort. There were also no signs to tell him where he was, so he would have to depend on Curly's tracker and his own innate sense of direction to get around. Neither, he realized, was all that dependable.

It was a twisty little maze, and all the side branches looked alike. Bill pulled himself along in what he hoped was a direction that might be roughly parallel to the main corridor. He had a real depressed feeling from the tracking device that Barfer might be in the alien-infested reactor room. There was nothing to do but keep moving and adjust his position by the dots on the box.

Twice he crawled down blind alleys and had to struggle backwards to the last branch. He decided that if he ever had a chance to design air ducts, not only would he make them large enough to walk comfortably through, he'd make sure they were well lit, clearly marked with road maps, and had an occasional water fountain. The darkness of the tunnels was broken only by the light spilling through the occasional vent, one of which lay directly ahead.

He crept slowly and quietly up to the vent and peered down. The good news was that he was directly over the corridor. The bad news was that there were, if possible, even more screeching loathsome aliens crammed into it than before. Way too many of them were the larger-than-Curly variety who could reach the ceiling vent with no difficulty if they so desired. Bill shuddered at his close proximity to the horrible creatures, and tried to convince himself that they couldn't see him and if he didn't breathe or let his heart beat too loud he'd probably be okay.

“How's it going, Bill?” shrieked the radio at full volume. “Uhuru here.”

“Arghh!” whispered Bill, scrambling away from the vent and turning down the volume.

“Are you still alive, Bill? If so, Caine is right here with his notebook, ready for your observations. Got anything to tell him?”

“Tell him he can stuff his notebook!” Bill whispered hoarsely. “This place is crawling with aliens.”

“He wants to know if you've got an exact count,” said Uhuru. “He says 'crawling' isn't exact enough.”

“Look, Uhuru,” whispered Bill, pulling himself frantically in what he hoped was the direction of the reactor room. “I'm fighting for my life here. I don't really have time for idle chatter.”

“Well, aren't we testy today,” sniffed Uhuru. “Then for your information, if you care to know, the ship is almost ready to go. We can wait for you, but not too long. Once we start the countdown, there's no turning back. If you get killed, let us know and we won't bother to wait.”

“I'll do that all right,” Bill snarled, angrily snapping the radio off.

He hoped none of the aliens had heard the noise. There was no way of turning around to check behind him. The tracker just showed a whole bunch of dots all around him, undoubtedly the aliens in the corridor. At least he hoped that's what they were. He tried to ignore the fact that two of the dots seemed to be following his exact path.

An exhausting and terrifyingly unmeasurable time later, after more twists and turns, Bill was certain they were following him. They must be in the air duct, right behind. And gaining! Bill crawled faster, and in doing so bumped the wall and managed to turn on the beeper function of the box. His heart sank lower with each beep, until it lodged somewhere between his groin and his kneecap, but he didn't dare stop moving long enough to figure out how to turn it off.

The beeps came faster and faster, increasing in volume and frequency with each passing second. He drew his knife, knowing full well there wasn't enough room to use it. The beeps ran together and the dots merged. Something touched his foot.

“Yeow!” yeowed Bill. “Yeow!”

“Keep it down,” whispered Rambette. “You want the aliens to know where we are?”

“Rambette!” whispered Bill. “Is that really you? I'm glad to see you even if I can't see you. I can't turn around in here.”

“You're not the only one, buster,” gasped Rambette. “Bruiser's right behind me. I feel like a slice of ham in a sandwich. On top of that, Bruiser keeps bumping me with Slasher.”

“Ain't my fault,” susurrated Bruiser. “I'm jammed in like cork.”

“Why'd you come?” asked Bill. “This is a suicide mission if I ever saw one.”

“Well, let's just say I'm looking after my mama's knife,” whispered Rambette. “My heart would break if I lost it.”

“I wanna lob more of Uhuru's grenades,” snarled Bruiser. “Real great, kill aliens.”

“I think Barfer is in the reactor room,” whispered Bill.

“We figured as much,” muttered Rambette. “Turn right at the next junction. I checked a map of this place before we started out. It's not far.”

Bill started crawling again. After he turned right he could see the light of a vent a short distance ahead. When he got there, he looked down. Barfer was at bay in the middle of the room, surrounded by a circle of Curly-sized aliens. Although they stayed a respectable distance from his snapping jaws they writhed and clawed at him. It was only a matter of time before one of them connected. The rest of the ichor-encrusted room was thick with creatures slithering and scuttling everywhere.

“Here's the plan,” whispered Rambette. “You go on past the vent. I'll take the screen out and jam it in the corner, tying this rope to it. Bruiser and I'll go down first and create a diversion. You follow us and grab the dog. Then we make our escape. Got it?”

“What's a diversion? If mean fight I love diversion,” chuckled Bruiser. “Let's go!”

Rambette secured the rope and she and Bruiser slid down it, flamethrowers blasting and grenades flying. As diversions went, this one was right up there in the gold-star range. Aliens were crackling and popping and screaming and flying apart. As Bill slid down, he appreciated the carnage and the fact that Bruiser and Rambette had managed to leave the dog intact.

“Woof!” barked Barfer, plowing through the circle of aliens toward Bill. “Woof, woof!”

“Dey got me!” cried Bruiser, as a slimeball alien wrapped its repulsive arms around him and pushed him into the control board. “Help!”

Barfer sprang into action, leaping on the alien and tearing its throat out.

“Your dog saved my life,” cried Bruiser, flopping backwards on the control board as Barfer pulled the alien off him. At that instant an earsplitting alarm bell started ringing. Green lights flashed stroboscopically, bathing the bloodbath with an obscene and ominous flicker. Steam started pouring from the walls.

“What did you do?” cried Rambette, lopping an arm off an alien with her knife. “What happened?”

“I t'ink I fell on da button,” admitted Bruiser.

“What kind of a button?” shrieked Bill, gathering up the dog. “What does it say?”

“Hold on,” cried Bruiser. “I wipe off da ichor first. Yeah, read it now. It says STATION SELF-DESTRUCT BUTTON. DO NOT PRESS.”

“I think we're moving into big problemsville,” admitted Rambette. “That button blows the reactor. Move!”

“This station will self-destruct in five minutes,” said a bored female voice over the loudspeakers. “All personnel are advised to take necessary precautions. This is a recording. Have a nice day wherever you are and whoever you are.”

“Gimme da dog,” said Bruiser, taking Barfer and tucking him under his arm, heading for the rope and scampering up it like a monkey. “I makin' tracks!”

Bill followed Rambette up the rope, giving the room five grenades and a final spray on his way up.

As they started scrambling through the air ducts, Bill turned the radio back on and called Uhuru.

“There's been a minor difficulty,” he said.

“I've got ears,” cried Uhuru, panic in his voice. “There are sirens and buzzers going off everywhere. We're on our final countdown now. I sure hope you make it back in time, because we can't hang around waiting on you.”

“Left!” cried Rambette. “Take the next left, Bruiser.”

“Why would they have a self-destruct button on a station that costs more than most planets make in a year?” asked Bill, following Rambette like a second skin. “It doesn't make sense.”

“It's military,” said Rambette. “It's not supposed to make sense. Turn right, Bruiser, right!”

“This station will self-destruct in four minutes,” yawned the prerecorded voice over the clanging alarms and the hiss of steam that filled the air.

“Where's all this steam coming from?” cried Bill. “I don't want to be scalded to death after all we've been through.”

“I don't know,” said Bruiser. “But it sure makes things seem real urgent.”

“Turn left!” cried Rambette. “No, wait! Right! All these ducts look alike to me!”

“It's dead end!” howled Bruiser. “We lost!”

“If you care to know, this station will self-destruct in three minutes. Remaining personnel are advised that their chances of survival range from none to zero. Or less. Your only remaining duty is to bend over with your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye.”

“Let the dog go!” cried Bill. “Bruiser! Let him loose!”

“I just got da dog an' you want me to trow him away?” yelled Bruiser. “Get serious.”

“I am serious,” said Bill. “It's a well-known and proven fact that most dogs can find their way back home from anywhere.”

“In less than three minutes?” wailed Rambette. “Barfer? No offense, but he's not the brightest dog I've known.”

“He's probably hungry,” said Bill. “I'll bet he'll head straight for the okra. Put him down and we'll follow him.”

“You're betting a lot on a longshot,” said Rambette.

“Would you rather sit around and argue about it until the reactor blows? Or maybe you got better ideas?”

“Eaties!” Bruiser shouted as he threw the dog down the duct.

“There he goes,” cried Bill as Barfer trotted away. “Follow him!”

The trio scrambled, twisted and crawled after the dog through the dark ducts until — lo and behold — Barfer led them to the vent in the anteroom. They tumbled through the opening and scooted across the pile of ruined rubble to the docking tube.

“Good ... dog...” Bill gasped.

“This station will self-destruct in two minutes. All remaining personnel are advised it is far too late to seek shelter. So have a good day.”

“Uhuru?” cried Bill through the radio as they ran up the docking tube. “Uhuru?”

“Sorry, you're too late,” he said. “We're lifting off in fifty seconds. Hey, it's been nice knowing you.”

“We're at the door,” screeched Rambette, grabbing the radio away from Bill. “And we're coming in! If you don't open it, we'll blast it off and you can all suck vacuum when and if you get this crate back into space.”

“Well, if you put it like that —” muttered Uhuru, triggering the door latch from the control room.

In a split second, the three Troopers and one dog slid through the opening before it slammed shut with aloud clang.