Authors: Alan Dean Foster
Several more rooms were destroyed before he reached the pub area. He halted the tractor's headlong plunge and backed it up a few yards.
"Medical stopover," he announced to the storm, still whistling his cheery tune into the wind. Somehow a bottle of Jim Beam had survived the chaos unscathed.
"You like whiskey?" he shouted toward the intact remnants of the compound as he pulled the stopper. "Come on, join me for a drink. Be good for you. Put fangs on your chest." He swallowed a substantial slug, felt fire slide down his throat and pool up in his belly. It felt wonderful.
The tractor rammed into the rec room. The engine started to grind. A few intermittent chugs brought it to a halt beneath the hole in the ceiling created by the thing's earlier, unanticipated method of entrance.
"Damn it," the pilot muttered, the smile still on his face, "ran out of gas. Oh well, hi ho, time for a stroll."
As he fiddled absently with the hydrogen tanks his eyes searched the gap overhead, the remaining doorways, the accumulated rubble. Wind-borne ice particles stung his face and hands.
He checked them. The fingertips were as black as if he'd been carrying charcoal, and he winced. Not from any pain: they were too numb for that, but from the knowledge of what might happen to them.
Then he sat back and laughed. Here he was sitting and worrying about his fingertips, like some damn beauty queen. His gaze roved unceasingly over the ruins
"Sweetheart, it's going to get mighty cold here pretty soon. You better make your move before I die on you, too. Then you'll really be stuck. I mean, I'm only one person, and everybody knows Americans taste better than Norwegians anyway, right?" He upended the bottle and took another swig, keeping his eyes busy. The tractor's headlights still burned, illuminating the wreckage.
"I know you're bugged because we ruined your trip, right? Spiffy little toy you had there. No room for a stewardess, though, and the legroom definitely wasn't first class."
A slight tremor rocked the tractor and he went quiet, listening. He glanced toward the hole in the roof, then around the devastated rec room. Pulling his butane lighter from a pocket he flicked it alight and cupped the flame near the short wick protruding from the single stick of dynamite.
"But your real hang-up," he continued, fighting to keep his voice casual, "is your looks."
The tremor was repeated, slightly stronger this time. Something was pounding away in the darkness, a steady, regular sound that seemed to come from everywhere around him. It took him a moment to realize it was his own heart.
"Atta boy," he murmured encouragingly "I know you're around. Here's papa. Y'all come visit."
The floor shook slightly beneath the tractor. He stood, searching the dark areas as well as those lit by the machine's headlights. "Come on. Come shake hands, sucker," he whispered tensely.
The tractor rose several inches. Macready lost his balance and tumbled forward, arms windmilling. He found himself staring into the engine at something that might have been a face.
A claw flashed up at him, splitting the steering wheel but missing his face as he threw himself backward.
He kicked at the accelerator and the tractor bounded ten feet. As it rumbled past the gap in the ceiling he jumped and grabbed the edge of the hole.
Ahead of him the thing's face and arms burst through the metal plating of the engine housing. Reaching claws just missed his legs as he scrambled onto the roof. A frustrated hiss echoed through the room below.
Macready steadied himself on the quivering roof. It threatened to collapse any second. He lit the short fuse on the dynamite and tossed it toward the tractor cab.
Half the thing's grotesque body emerged from the opening behind Macready, screeching in fury. Something flexible and tough as a rubber hose whipped out and wrapped itself twice around the pilot's chest, tightening and yanking him backward.
At that instant there was an immense explosion, the leaking hydrogen tanks igniting and sending a white fireball fifty feet into the night sky. Mixed in with the flames were the carbonizing remnants of the thing's body.
The force of the blast smacked Macready from behind and shoved him off the roof. He crashed into the snow below. The severed and now lifeless limb was still wrapped around him, burning along with the back of his jacket. He tore off the limb and flung it aside, then rolled over and over in the snow until the last of the flames eating at his back were smothered . . .
There wasn't much left of the camp. Half of it was a blackened, smoking ruin and the rest a garbage heap, thanks to Macready's manipulation of the bulldozer. The storm had settled considerably. Still-burning fires illuminated the ruins and the southern lights danced overhead.
Macready stumbled through the devastation, several thick blankets wrapped around him. Whether the spare parkas had gone up in flames or lay buried beneath the rubble or were simply lying around somewhere waiting to be found he didn't yet know. But the multiple layers of blanket kept the wind off and much of the cold away from his abused body.
Pain bent him double. It was hard to limp from one hot spot to the next and wield the fire extinguisher with much accuracy. He mumbled something, though there was no one to hear him, finally gave up and flung the inadequate extinguisher aside. It clanged off something unyielding and metallic: the twisted bulk of Nauls's stove.
The pub area was largely untouched by the fires, a kind providence having apparently decided that now that he'd disposed of the thing's final manifestation be could stay comfortably drunk for the rest of the night. He smiled thinly. He was looking forward to a five-month binge.
He leaned against the handmade bar and lit a cigar from the pub's undamaged stock. His hands were heavily wrapped. No gloves were lying conveniently about, but there'd been plenty of insulated tape in the ruins of the infirmary. What was left of his hands benefited from the bandaging anyway. He puffed on the cigar and poured a double, no soda please, into a glass that was only slightly chipped.
Something grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. He was too exhausted to scream.
A face stared back into his own: Childs. White-and-black blotches mottled the exposed skin and icicles decorated the mechanic's woolly beard.
"Did . . . did you kill it? I heard an explosion." Childs's mouth wasn't working too well. His lips were cracked and stained with dried blood. A weak gust of wind caused the powerful frame to stagger. Lack of food and exposure to the elements had severely depleted the mechanic's strength.
"I think so," Macready told him
"What do you mean, 'you think so'?" Childs stumbled backward a few steps.
They eyed each other suspiciously, the voices guarded. Macready was suddenly alert.
"Yeah, I got it." He gestured with a mummified finger at the mechanic's face. "Pretty mean frostbite."
Childs kept his distance and exhibited a puffy, pale hand.
"It'll turn again soon enough. Then I guess I'll be losing the whole thing." He kicked out first his right foot, then the left. The movements were feeble, shaky. "Think my toes are already gone."
Macready had salvaged one of the card tables and set it up nearby. Carrying bottle and glass he limped over and sat down in the single chair. The back was cracked but the legs were still intact.
A chess set rested on the table, its power wire hanging loosely over the side. By some miracle the box of pieces that had been buried beneath it had survived the cataclysm. Several piles of cards lay nearby. Macready was in the process of combining them to form a single, complete deck.
The two men continued to eye each other warily. "So you're the only one who made it," said Childs.
Macready was setting up the chessboard. Tiny magnets held each piece to the metal board despite the steady wind.
"Not the only one, it looks like."
Childs found a couple of blankets and gratefully wrapped them around his upper body. "The fire's got the temperature way up all over camp. Won't last long, though." He nodded toward the pub's missing wall.
"Neither will we."
"Maybe we should try and fix one of the radios. Try and get some help."
"Maybe we shouldn't."
"Then we'll never make it," the mechanic said calmly.
Macready puffed on the cigar until the tip glowed red, then reached down into the bundle of supplies he'd gathered. From the middle of the pile he pulled a small, cylindrical metal shape.
"Lookee what I found. This one works." He carefully put the blowtorch on the table next to him.
"Maybe we shouldn't make it," he added speculatively.
Childs eyed the blowtorch. "If you're worried about anything, let's take that blood test of yours."
"If we've got any surprises for each other," the pilot replied, "we wouldn't be in any condition to do anything about it. Any testing can wait." He paused, then ask cheerfully, "You don't play chess?"
Childs studied the pilot, then hunted through the wreckage outside the pub. He returned carrying a second chair in reasonably good condition and placed it across the table from Macready.
"I guess I'll be learning."
The pilot grinned and handed the mechanic the bottle. Childs leaned back and drained half of what was left. When he put the bottle down he was smiling.
Around them the persistent fires smoldered on, riding a sea of frozen water. Bright embers levitated by the wind rose lazily into the night sky The ghostly ribbon of the southern aurora pirouetted overhead, masking many of the stars that had come out in the wake of the storm.
Macready nudged a pawn two squares forward . . .
A
LAN
D
EAN
F
OSTER
, a Scorpio, was born in California where he completed his schooling. After serving a hitch in the U.S. Army, he worked as a copywriter in a public relations-advertising firm. Since then he has taught Motion Picture History and Writing at Los Angeles City College, as well as Literature at U.C.L.A.
A prolific writer, Foster has written very successful novelizations of
Alien, Dark Star, The Black Hole, Outland
and
Clash of the Titans
. He has also had ten novels published including the five Humanx Commonwealth volumes,
Midworld, Cachalot, Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin
and his most recent one,
Spellsinger
.
A red belt in Tang Soo Do (a form of Korean Karate), Foster's hobbies are backpacking, body surfing and basketball. He and his wife recently deserted the Pacific Coast to live in the Arizona desert.