J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (40 page)

Ironhorse swept the room with the flashlight beam, his expression becoming more and more puzzled. "How the hell are you supposed to fly these things?"

Harrison shook his head. "No one ever figured it out. Clayton—Dr. Forrester speculated that somehow the aliens used brainwave impulses. The pilots' brains were probably directly hooked in to a navigational computer."

Ironhorse shuddered.

Harrison reached into the satchel again and gingerly fished out the slab of explosive and the timing device. Distastefully, he proffered them both to the colonel. "Here. You're the expert in this department." He gestured at the panel. "I'd set it over there."

Ironhorse took them from him and set to work, sticking the plastic on the underside of the panel, at the far end.

"If you don't mind," Harrison said, peering over the colonel's shoulder, "I'll just go ahead and get the other ships opened up."

Ironhorse almost grinned, his eyes focused intently on what he was doing. "What's the matter, Blackwood? Don't think I know what I'm doing?"

"I trust you implicitly, Colonel. But let me put it this way—I'm no longer needed here, am I?"

Ironhorse shrugged. "Guess not. Get out of here."

Harrison walked back down the ramp, trying to ignore the wobbliness his knees had taken on. In the middle of the shadowy hangar, Suzanne knelt, engrossed in her examination of what looked like a tankful of oxygen. Harrison strolled up behind her, sure that with all the noise he made coming out of the hatch, she heard his approach.

There she was, working hard, unafraid, determined to stop the aliens even if it meant her life. He was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to tell her how much he admired her, how damn glad he was he made Ephram hire her, how thankful he was that she got Wilson's help, how impressed he was with the calm way she risked herself now . . . and how, if they ever made it out of this mess alive, he wanted to repay her in some way.

Instead, he peered over her shoulder and nodded at the pressurized tank. "Think you'll be needing that?"

She nearly jumped out of her skin. She leapt to her feet, nearly knocking the canister over, then stared up at him with that distracted manner she had when she was working.

"Warn me next time you sneak up, okay?" She glanced down at her equipment and said in answer to his question, "I hope not. There was no way to test it on a live subject, so I have no way of knowing if it'll be effective."

"Suzanne," he began desperately, not knowing exactly how he intended to begin.

"What?" She knelt back down to adjust the pressure on the tank.

"I just wanted to say . . . if we both manage to make it through this alive—well, I wanted you to know that I . . ."

She frowned quizzically up at him, which made him even more tongue-tied.

"I was trying to say that I..."

"One down, two to go." Ironhorse emerged from the ship and slapped Harrison on the shoulder. "Come on, Blackwood, get a move on."

"Shit,"
Harrison said.

"What?" Suzanne blinked. "Harrison, what were you saying? Something about if we both survive ... ?"

"Never
mind.'"
Disgusted, Harrison shook his head. "If we survive,
then
I'll tell you." He didn't turn around so he wouldn't have to see the sneer he knew Ironhorse would be wearing.

"Did I interrupt something?" Ironhorse's tone was all innocence.

Harrison went straight to the next ship without answering.

They set explosives in the next two ships without incident, and climbed out of the third ship to find Suzanne waiting anxiously for them. She stood clutching the tank, a worried expression on her face. "We need to get out of here. I think someone's coming."

Ironhorse cocked his head to listen. "Helicopters. Two of them."

Harrison peered uncertainly at the hangar entrance. "How do we know if they're good guys or bad guys?"

"We don't," the colonel replied. "But considering what we're doing, it doesn't make much difference. Come on—we'd better take cover."

Ironhorse dashed to a far dark corner and hid behind a stack of cobweb-covered wooden crates.

Suzanne and Harrison followed and crouched down, Suzanne sandwiched between the two men. The thumping of the chopper blades grew louder; they had landed, Harrison guessed, just outside the hangar entrance.
Stay calm. We were probably spotted by some airmen on maneuvers, that's all.

"How much time?" he asked the colonel.

Ironhorse held his watch in front of his eyes and squinted at the digital display. "If we're not out of here in ten minutes, we get to be part of the fireworks." His face was grim.

A sound: someone trying unsuccessfully to open the door. This was going to be bad. Suzanne was squeezed so close to Harrison, their shoulders touched. He could feel her tense next to him.

He whispered in her ear, "Look, I was just trying to say before: thanks for believing me. I can't tell you what your help has meant to me."

She looked at him and tried to smile, but her eyes were wide and frightened. He realized that his own fear had eased in the face of his concern for her and her daughter.

"Look, I feel terrible about this," he said truthfully, too low for Ironhorse to hear. No point in holding back anything; speak now or forever hold your peace. "My own hope was that Debi wouldn't have to go through what I did."

Her expression warmed at that; she managed a weak smile. "Maybe she won't. Maybe that's just air force people out there."

He smiled back, encouraged. "Maybe. And if we
do
make it through this—"

The metal door exploded under a hail of bullets, shrapnel flying into the hangar, scattering across the floor. Harrison ducked lower and squeezed his eyes shut. Next to him, Suzanne trembled ... or was that himself?

"Shit," he breathed, but it was drowned out by the explosion. He raised his head cautiously and peered through the spaces between the crates. Soldiers were filing into the hangar. His initial reaction was relief— so they'd be arrested by the air force. He could deal with that.

But then he noticed the uniforms were wrong. These guys were army, not air force . . . and as he watched, he saw that some of the men's uniforms were torn and stained with congealed blood. One of them, obviously in charge, turned his head to survey the room . . . and revealed a face half shot away, a red, pulpy mass of dried blood, muscle, and cartilage. Harrison looked away, sickened.

"Jesus," Ironhorse whispered. "My men. Those are my men." He moved as if to rise; Harrison reached past Suzanne to lay a restraining hand on the colonel's forearm.

"Not anymore," he said softly.

The soldiers divided into three groups, each group heading for a ship. With intense relief Harrison realized they didn't suspect anyone else was in the hangar. Maybe there
was
a chance to make it out alive.

The three huddled behind the crates, not making a sound, until the last soldier made it onto the last ship, and the hatch closed. And then one of the ships began

to hum; its metal began to pulse, dark silver alternating with hot white. Harrison glanced, terrified, at the red targeting eye. Still dull—but the minute the aliens activated their sensing devices, they would discover the three humans hiding in the darkness.

He leaned forward to whisper to Suzanne and the colonel. "We've got to go
now
—before their ships sense us." He got up and ran, half crouching, toward the entrance, staying in the shadows along the walls. For an instant the memory of thirty-five years earlier threatened to overtake him.
Suzanne. Think of Suzanne. Got to be sure she makes it out okay. . . .

The thought steadied him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Suzanne following, carrying the heavy tank, with Ironhorse bringing up the rear. As he watched, the colonel stopped suddenly, his expression stunned. Harrison followed his gaze. Blocking the entrance was the soldier with the blown-away face, who raised his M-16 threateningly at the escaping trio,

"Reynolds," Ironhorse whispered, then: "Gordie? Don't shoot." He spread his hands in a gesture of friendliness. "Gordie—it's me."

Gordie was unimpressed. He took aim.

Swiftly, Suzanne stepped forward and pointed the tank's nozzle at Gordie; she closed her eyes and turned away as a cloud of gray mist enveloped the soldier.

None of them moved as Gordie dropped the rifle, coughed a few times, staggered forward, and fell.

"It worked!" Suzanne cried, exultant. "My bacteria worked! We can use this on them!"

Gordie coughed again—then, before they could make it past him, began to craw! toward the dropped rifle.

"Better recheck that formula," Harrison told her. He swung the satchel of equipment in a wide arc and struck the fallen soldier on the head—with absolutely no effect whatsoever. Gordie moved relentlessly toward the gun.

With an expression of hardened pain, Ironhorse lifted his own rifle and took aim.

He didn't have time to shoot. Gordie fell forward, his back arching as a convulsion gripped his entire body. His skin began to bubble and swell until it burst, spewing pus and blood and decaying tissue—what was left began to dissolve into an obscene, vile puddle of ooze. Beneath, something dark and living writhed, struggling to free itself.

Ironhorse's mouth twitched slightly as he fired— once, twice, three times, until the thing ceased moving and lay still. He looked up at Harrison and Suzanne, his face terrible. "Let's get out of here."

They ran through the open personnel entrance. Once outside, Harrison gulped in the fresh air and began to run toward the helicopters. The colonel caught him by the arm, almost yanking it from the socket. "No! They expect us to head there! This way!" Ironhorse took off for the open field, beyond which lay the cover of the forest.

"Jesus," Harrison whispered, stopped dead by the horrifying familiarity of the scene. The open field, the pursuing ships . . . The nightmare was becoming reality again ...

"Come on!" Suzanne came up behind him and grabbed his hand tightly. "They're coming! Run!"

She gave his arm a hard jerk, pulling him off balance. Harrison stared at her without comprehending at first—then descended into terror, and ran.

Behind them came a tortured groaning sound, the sound of the huge hangar doors sliding open for the first time in decades. Running wildly, Harrison glanced over his shoulder to see a bright beam—the alien death ray—streak out from the hangar's interior. The helicopters outside glowed a brilliant, painful orange and burst into flames that quickly extinguished themselves, leaving only smoldering, blackened skeletons.

The sight of it made them run harder, crazily, both of them fighting to keep their balance on the uneven terrain. Harrison's breath came in ragged, sobbing gasps. Well ahead of them, Ironhorse disappeared into the cover of the forest.

The air was filled with a deep, ominous hum. At the sound, Harrison's skin began to tingle. He looked back again to see a lone ship sail gracefully through the open hangar doors, past the smoking remains of the choppers. It paused, hovering a mere twelve feet from the ground . . . and its great red eye began to rotate, searching for the intruders.

The shelter of the forest was only a few yards away.

And then Harrison stumbled over a large rock and lost his balance. Suzanne struggled to hold on to him, to keep him moving, but lost her grip on his hand. He fell hard, facedown, onto the sparse grass.

He pushed himself up and looked over his shoulder.

The ship was gliding closer. Harrison felt the hair on the nape of his neck rise.

Harrison, no—

He looked in front of him. Through wisps of smoke that drifted over from the incinerated helicopters, he saw Suzanne stop running and cry out his name, her hazel eyes large with terror, the tendons on her white neck standing out like cords. She was starting back to help him to his feet.

Harrison—

No, Suzanne!
He waved her on, tried to scramble to his feet.
Run—

But she froze, her eyes wide and terrible, focused on the approaching ship.

Behind them the great eye paused as it found its target.

Harrison dropped back down and covered his head as the ship fired.

Xashron was filled with exhilaration to be at the controls of a ship again, with Xeera and Konar on either side of him.

"Prepare to destroy their vessels," he ordered, and waited while the last soldier pulled open the hangar doors before dashing back into the sister ship. "There is no point in allowing them an easy escape."

Xeera peered into her viewer, her human form hunched over. The host bodies were awkward, since the ships were not scaled for them, but there had been no time to exit them. "Door open, Commander."

In a weak voice Konar relayed the targeting informa

tion to Xeera, who was poised over her control panel. Konar sighed and rested his head against the panel.

Xashron eyed him with concern. There was no better place for a soldier like Konar to die than at his post, but they could not ajford to lose their targeter now. "Are you able to perform your duties, Konar?"