An Alien Rescue (30 page)

Marching through the tunnel, leaving the mess and jumble of body-parts behind them, Mike was still enjoying the situation immensely.

“Jesus-Christ, man,” said Mike with pride in his voice. “Did you see the little gook-guys come apart back there, one after the other? Wow! Now that’s what I call a fight. Bring-‘em on babe!”

Scott looked back at the carnage in the tunnel, feeling sick at the sight. “If you’re finished playing with your fucking weapon, Mike, we might continue to push on quietly.”

Scott released a loud sigh. “How much ammo do you have left?” Scott wondered if there was enough to repel another attack. His own revolver held only six rounds in its rotating chamber, with only a couple of boxes containing ten in each. He considered they might be vulnerable if the base mounted additional assaults.

Mike squeezed the harness’s pouches with his left hand, deftly pressing the green canvas material while mentally counting the magazines by their feel. “We’ve more than enough for any little fuckers that come our way, that’s for sure,” he replied confidently. “An’ I sure do hope some do ‘cause I aint finished playing with myself yet!” Mike had said it with a more than just a defiant smirk; he had added an innuendo, trying to wind Scott up while looking for any sign of irritation.

Scott recognised Mike’s bait, not knowing if he should laugh at his pathetic reply or not. If it hadn’t been for the exceptional circumstances he’d found himself in he’d have made absolutely certain he’d have put some distance between the three of them and Mike’s disturbing presence. Scott would have loved to say how he thought Mike was on another planet, but as it was true it wouldn’t make much sense, and how Mike would receive it and act would also be another matter entirely.

“Okay, by the numbers. Belinda? Phyllis?” asked Scott, observing their pallid complexions and worried looks. Neither opted to speak, choosing to simply make eye contact and nodding they were all right.

Both women dropped their gaze immediately afterwards, the horror of the mutilated bodies and memory of the killing bothered them immensely. Scott saw their looks of sorrow and quickly decided it was time to speed-up. “OK! If we’re still fit to travel, it’s time to push on at a quicker pace. There’s a Grey piece of scumbag hiding somewhere up ahead and the son of a bitch is controlling this base. Unless we make certain they’re out of the picture we can be assured there will be more chaos for us.”

“Holy-shit, Scott. That’s a neat turn of phrase ya’ll got there. An I jist wanna tell ya’ll that any grey coloured piece of scumbag, as you so nicely put it
Admiral, tries to come between us will have me to deal with. Oh, yeah, I nearly forgot, they’ll have my babe to deal with too. And that’s, Baby Akay, as I like to call her.”

Scott could only smile while nodding as if to give his approval to Mike’s comments, while in reality he really wanted to get rid of him and his so-called
Babe
as quickly as possible. If it were possible to start a universal war with various species ripping the heads off their enemies while masturbating their flame-spitting and thunderous weaponry, then Mike would be the one to do it. Scott began to see him as a pathological killer on the loose beneath the surface of planet Mars. And should he, or his companions, upset this homicidal maniac who’s in love with a loaded and lethal killing machine, then god only knows how it might all end up, he seriously considered.

“Hey, liven-up broads. We’ve still got some place to go to. Aint we Scott?”

Smiling rather badly, Scott replied, “Yep, we sure do partner.”

“Yo, Scott. A could sure have used yur li
'l ol’ turn of phrase in the jungle. Ya’d sure-as hell’ave put a smile on the stiffened faces of ma dead bro’s and a panic on the gooks that tried to kill yours truly, that’s fur fuckin’ sure.”

Uncertain as to the message that Mike had just tried to convey, he continued to smile, whereupon he was scared half-to-death by Mike’s changing vocabulary and altered words.

Pausing for just a moment, Scott turned and winked with a reassuring smile to the women as he said, “You’re still on point, Mike. Keep your eyes peeled and your safety off.”

His female companions smiled as if to say they were still fine, when Mike cut in with his timely repertoire. “You got it, bro. Follow me into the fires of hell, if you dare?”

The tunnel behind contained the remains of the bodies, all splattered and congealed into a stinking quagmire. The gelled bits and their blown apart blobs slowly oozed into a flat but deep pile of unrecognisable gunge.

“Little mother-fuckers!” stated Mike as they left the smelly mass behind.

“We’re right behind you, Mike,” said Scott loudly as if to prompt the ladies to follow him.

With a sideways glance at each other, Belinda and Phyllis fell into line and followed
on. Scott fell into step and brought up the rear, still listening and looking in both directions almost simultaneously.

The quartet moved along the tunnel, not really knowing where they were headed or towards what danger might lurk around the many bends that appeared. Mike didn’t seem to care what might stand in his way as he went headlong
at high speed around blind corners. His finger constantly played on the trigger of his Babe as he frequently spoke to it. It was almost is if it was his best friend in the entire solar system, which it probably was. Scott saw him as a threat to the mission’s success and a potential danger to their health. Mike just played the part of a soldier.
Don’t ask questions, we come in peace, shoot to kill.

Time passed and the tunnel never seemed to change very much. After each bend another soon followed, all combining with the other to maintain a common heading. It was like following a zigzagging path. Scott would have liked a compass to keep track of their heading, but felt sure his own sense of direction was dependable enough to know they were more or less headed on a straight line.
It reminded him of a First World War trench, where they zigzagged deliberately. The sandy surface of the tunnel they followed showed the multitude of footprints made by the little guys as they had swarmed towards them, suggesting there should be some kind of control or barracks from where they had originated from. Mike didn’t seem to care as he kept a steady pace without hesitating before bends or poorly lit areas. He just plodded on as if he was on a holiday trek enjoying the tunnel’s sights. Scott wondered what might be going through his mind as he forced his progress without looking back to check if he might have left his group behind or not.

Then it appeared, all of a sudden and without any kind of warning. An enormous chamber
whose size would put any cathedral on Earth to shame, and all without visible pillars or supports. There was no organ playing a mournful tune or worshipping congregation praying for the high and mighty to give them their daily bread and a lottery win. It was colossal, with magnificent walls that glistened with crystals. It was both a heavenly and surreal vision. Mike stopped without saying a word. Scott believed he had been taken aback by the abruptness of it all, not expecting to see such an apparition. The ladies looked on in awe, trying to work out how the excavation was done. Scott and Mike just stood looking dumbfounded.

Belinda was the first to speak. “It’s positively huge.”

“Hey, thanks,” said Mike without hesitation. “All the girls used to say that!”

Belinda looked awfully confused by Mike’s reply. Mike thought it was a witty reply before remembering the thing that might be referred to as huge was now all bent and twisted with chunks where there shouldn’t be any and crevices where there should be flesh. He regretted his unfortunate statement. His regret seemed to spark some kind of life into him as his eyes
sharpened with a hint of focus. With a shake of his head and several blinks of his eyes, Mike appeared to straighten in his stature.

“Jesus, I feel as if I’ve been sleeping for as long as I can remember,” blurted Mike, rubbing his eyes.

Scott and both ladies looked at him, wondering what he actually meant by that.

“Holy shit, this is something else. I never knew this place existed or I would’ve been here long before now,” Mike added as he spun on his heels looking upwards at the domed roof.

“It’s quite remarkable,” interrupted Belinda.

“It’s beautiful,” commented Phyllis.

Scott stayed silent as he attempted to focus on the star clustered roof. The crystals were most extraordinary, he thought. The sandstone must have allowed the crystals to form and grow to fantastic dimensions since the oceans dried-up. And yet, he noticed, there weren’t any lying on the floor, which was unusual, in his opinion. If the hall had been artificially excavated, he would have expected the occasional crystal to loosen and fall from the carved walls. But in this instance, he wondered, they hadn’t.

“Scott,” interrupted Belinda once again. “Our mission is still ongoing, and although I’m as fascinated by the sight of such a large and wondrous place, we
must
move on.”

Brought back to the reality of their situation and predicament, Scott sighed as he apologised for allowing his concentration to wander. Phyllis also said she understood, but they must continue with the mission… “Now!” she insisted.

“Whoa!” said Mike loudly, but smiling. “We’re in a place that’s completely out of this world …” They all looked at each other and smiled at his comment. “And you want Scott to get a grip and move on-out pronto. Is that right?”

Belinda smiled with confusion. “Move on-out pronto? What exactly does that mean?”

Both Mike and Scott laughed at her question. Their language was still causing problems between them, but in this instance it helped to lighten the load of worry about where they were, might be going, and where they needed to be. Phyllis stepped forward, saying she could see a doorway at the base of the opposite wall.

All eyes turned and peered into the darkness that surrounded the area, allowing time for their vision to adjust before commenting. Mike raised Akay into a firing position, just in case some slimy foe should be lurking in the shadows. Scott heard an ejected round bounce off the floor as Mike put a fresh one into the chamber, “Just makin’ sure,” he said, watching Scott picking up on his make-ready actions. He knew there should have been a round sitting tight
in the chamber waiting on the firing-pin to strike it, but checked anyway, thanking Scott as he accepted it from him. The mechanical sound of the working parts being drawn backwards then released, reminded Scott of all the times he’d practiced with weapons in the RAF, setting his mind into a sort of daydream mode.

He’d initially used the Self Loading Rifle, commonly known as the SLR. It had only just been introduced into the British forces when he’d joined-up, superseding the aging Lee-Enfield 303. However, time moves on and newer weapons tend to make an appearance, taking over from those that became old and technologically dated. He remembered an even newer weapon to hit the streets, the semi-automatic SA80. He couldn’t help smiling at the absurdity of it as a weapon to be relied upon. It didn’t like the cold of an arctic winter, it hated the heat of the desert, and the magazine of rounds would drop from its housing if the weapon was pressed close against the owner’s body. It was supposed to be more accurate than the SLR and lighter too. But for all its manufacturer’s promised benefits it had proved to be nothing but problematic. Scott didn’t like it; neither did his mates. His mind really started to daydream, with half-closed eyelids he almost swayed. His weaponry skills and the practice made him think of a funny moment during his earliest days in the RAF.

He recalled his regular Ground Defence Training days were always a bind; for everyone else too. Retrained and heavily tested on how to strip and clean a weapon in complete darkness if need be, recognising injuries and applying life-saving first-aid. There was lessons in detection, followed by taking the appropriate action for survival in a nuclear, biological and chemical weapon attack (NBC). The training day would end with firing live rounds from a troublesome SA80 at wooden targets. As Scott was already an accomplished marksman, with the appropriate crossed-rifles badge on his uniform, he treated the range-firing as a bit of fun. He would put the first round between the eyes, one for each nipple, belly-button, bollocks and knee-caps, then to obliterate the target with what bullets remained. He enjoyed his little game of shooting at the target’s private parts in his own idiosyncratic way. The RAF Regiment Gunners who manned the shooting range never twigged what he was actually doing and mistakenly assumed he was a poor shot, occasionally forcing him to fire a second magazine for the extra practice; something he always enjoyed doing by astounding all on-lookers with a perfect grouping in the centre of the target. They didn’t have the slightest notion there might actually be someone on the airfield that could shoot straight and put bullets where they needed to go.

Scott, on occasion when the moment called for it, would recount a terrifying experience from his military past with some of the other trainees. He passed on a true story
to others that concerned a WRAF officer who reckoned she could handle a weapon as well as any man and shoot better still. This woman, he would insist, was an absolute danger to the entire human species when she handled a weapon. He mentioned the hard-pressed Gunner giving this officer the regulatory range safety advice, such as,
keeping the weapon pointing down the range at all times
,
to listen and act upon his instructions without question
and never, ever turn around to face others while holding a live weapon
. She gave him such a disapproving look while he was instructing her that all the onlookers instinctively began cowering behind each other while stepping backwards away from the lesson. They all knew there was trouble brewing when it was obvious she didn’t know what the hell she was supposed to be doing when she took control of the weapon. She didn’t know which side of the weapon had the safety catch or how to apply it before cocking the weapon to check it was clear before loading a magazine with thirty live and very nasty rounds. The instructor had to take the sub-machine gun from her grasp to load it for her, fighting to relieve her of it with her tugging it back as if she owned the bloody thing. She only released it when she heard the coughs, splutters and half-cocked laughs from the disapproving onlookers, who rapidly looked away with all the hums and haws of meaningless conversation as if nothing had happened when she glowered at them through squinted feminist eyes. This was one of
those
awful people who despised others who knew more, which in her case was most of the human race. The poor instructor gave her his best professional advice, keeping very calm and courteous, all to his credit. She was to aim slowly and carefully, gently squeezing the trigger while keeping the sights on the target. Short sharp bursts was the order, but before the words, ‘
In your own time, at the left hand target, two short controlled bursts
,’ could be uttered, she had already pressed the trigger and bullets were flying in all directions, everywhere other than at the target.