Mask (13 page)

Catherine, Lily and William all leaned against Lane, blood smearing their jump-suits and faces.

“This is it,” Catherine whispered into his ear.

“They’ll be coming fast now, we have to hurry,” Lane said through a wheezing cough.

Allen placed a bar through the handle and closed the emergency air-lock clamps.  He turned to his friends.

“It’ll have to hold.”

******

Wally stood at the bottom of the stairs with Tim.

Lane, Allen and Doc Larson made their way down through the remaining colonists and joined them at the Equipment Room door.

Tim looked squarely at Lane, “I’m done, let’s go.”

They all walked into the room and closed the door.

“What happens?” Tim asked.

Lane pointed at the punch machine and Tim put one hand up to brace himself.  The wall behind the machine was coated with the coagulating gobbets of Larry’s face, head and brain.  The blood had run down the wall in rivulets and across the floor.

“It’s painless, Tim.  Looks much worse than it is, nothing to worry about,” Doc Larson said.

Wally pushed the cart into place.

Tim went pale as he looked at the bloodied cart and then to each of the adults in the room.

“Time’s wasting.  We have to hurry here,” Lane said impatiently.

“Give me a second,” Tim said.

Lane shook his head, they didn’t have seconds and they certainly couldn’t play this game with the twenty-plus waiting colonists.  He thought about his children and wife, waiting their turn.

Lane walked over to the work bench and picked up an oily cloth and then suddenly grabbed Tim by the hair and stuffed the cloth into his mouth and pushed him into range of the machine.

Tim’s eyes flashed fear as he tried to get away, pushing against the wall.  Allen grabbed his arms and leaned on him, keeping him still.  Tim continued to lean his head forward, refusing to go now that it had all become real.

Wally surprised everyone when he pushed a wide dust broom into Tim’s face and shoved his head back into position.

Lane hit the trigger without further discussion.

The punch hit the brake pad.

Bloody matter squirted out around the back plate and sprayed the room, just like it had with Larry and the punch retracted.  They loosened their grip and let Tim fall to the cart.

“Okay,” Allen looked at the others, “we are now officially murderers.”

“What part of ‘we don’t have the fucking time for this’ isn’t anyone clueing in on?” Lane shouted.  “From now on, anyone coming through that door doesn’t get a choice.  If they choose to remain outside, they’re on their own.  Deal?”

“Deal,” they all said in grim unison.

Lane looked to Larson, “Next.”

Doc Larson opened the door and another colonist joined them in the killing room.

One after another they came in, some cooperating and other’s less so.  The murderers were exhausted.  The floor was slick with blood, despite the bedding and linens.  It looked like a slaughterhouse.  The room reeked of blood, piss, shit and vomit.

Wally wasn’t even getting the bodies into the Bunker anymore, just tipping the cart in the hallway between.  Soon he would be dumping them at the far end of the room and the last would stay where they fell.

They had been at it for almost twenty minutes when the lights suddenly flashed on.  They all shielded their eyes initially and then stared at the room.  Wally wretched.

Their lemon jump-suits were now crimson.  Their hands and faces were covered in blood.  The room was covered in shiny gore.

“Shit, they hit the breakers?” Doc Larson whispered.

Lane didn’t even slow down, “Yeah.  They’re inside.  We have to hurry.”

The door opened and Catherine came in for the first time and immediately choked, her hand going to her face and then she fell against the door frame and almost vomited as well.  She leaned back onto the door and covered her face.

“Oh my God,” she gasped.

Lane went to put his arms around her, but she pushed him away.

“No, not yet.  I need…”

He gently grabbed her by the arms and leaned into her face, staring into her eyes and kissed her forehead.

“I’m sorry, I know, I know.  I was just, shocked.  They’re upstairs; we can hear them moving around,” she said.

“Who’s left?” Larson asked.

“Not many.  And the kids.”

“Turn the light off Allen,” Lane said.

Allen hit the switch and the room returned to a glowing red haze, sparkling off of unidentifiable dripping objects.

“Better, let’s finish this,” Lane said as he gave Catherine a reassuring squeeze and then let her go.

Catherine remained in the room while the machine spun up again and the blow-off valve screamed once more.  The cycle repeated until soon there were only the five of them and the five children crying on the steps outside.

Doc Larson held up the throttle-body spacer and locked it into place.

“If you want me to do you, you better go now.  After my kids, I’m out.  Got it?” Lane asked.

“We’ll stay to just before,” Wally said.

The others nodded in agreement and then they brought in the first of the children.  As they opened the door, they heard the pounding on the security door at the top of the stairs; their time was all but gone.

They brought all the children in and had them stare at the cleanest wall, away from the machine.

Allen locked and barricaded the Equipment Room door.

Doc Larson positioned a large aluminum case for the kids to stand on.  They were all about the same height. 
What fucked up reality made this okay?
  He couldn’t see everyone clearly, but he could see shoulders trembling with quiet sobs.

Only Lane was immune.  He was a machine.

Catherine touched Fynn on the shoulder and as he turned she lifted him up.  Doc Larson moved to make sure the other children didn’t watch.  William stood at the end of the line, holding his sister’s hand.

Fynn was a sandy haired trouble-maker of the best kind.  His parents had both been physicists.  Catherine stood him up on the makeshift platform and gently pushed his head back into the killing space.

Fynn was about six and they all broke down when he looked Lane right in the eye and said, “I’ll be brave.  I’m not afraid.”

Lane reached out and ruffled his hair. “I know you are.”

Lane studied the brave little face, the sparkling eyes and the trembling lips.

He hit the trigger.

The kids screamed at the bang of the punch and started to turn, but Doc Larson pulled them together and kept them facing away.

Fynn’s head split and ruptured.

Everyone gasped in horror.

Except for Catherine, who caught the little body of Fynn and carried him over to rest beside his parents.  As she walked back for the next child she patted William and Lily on the head.

She picked up Katy next and then Susan, and placed them next to their parents as well.

A loud explosion rocked the room.

“They’re in the stairwell,” Lane shouted.

Allen walked over and kicked the case away, jerked the throttle-body loose, and spun leaning his head back.  “As fast as this machine can go I think.  You’ve been the best friends I could have ever asked for.  Good luck and God’s Speed.”

Lane waited, staring into Allen’s eyes.  They all silently shared their memories together, looking to one another.

“We made a difference,” Allen said, “didn’t we?”

Lane nodded and Wally patted his shoulder.

“We did and you did.  I’m proud of you Allen, very proud,” Lane said quietly.

They were taken with a surreal pride in this, their final memory together.

“Thank you,” Catherine said quietly.

Allen nodded and then the machine whistled.

Allen rolled his eyes toward the punch and then closed them as Lane pressed the trigger.

Allen fell and Wally rolled him over with his foot and then took his place.

The handle of the Equipment Room door rattled.

“Oh my God,” Catherine hissed, “they’re here, Lane.”

Lane put one hand on Wally’s shoulder and smiled reassuringly.

“It’s been good, Boss.  We always got away, but not this time,” Wally said quietly.

Lane just nodded and continued to hold his friend’s shoulder as the pressure built.  They stared into each other’s eyes, reliving a lifetime of memories — words were unnecessary.

The blow-off valve screamed and he hit the trigger.  Lane caught Wally and let him fall atop Allen.

“Doc?”  Lane asked.

“Not yet.”

“Catherine,” Lane encouraged.

Catherine stepped over to William and picked him up.  She wouldn’t even let him stand.  She held him in place, tears streaming down his face and hers.  It was awkward, but she was able to get him into position.  He reached out for her, trying to pull her close, but she firmly held on as the machine pressurized.  She remembered Outpost 3 too.

“I love you, William, I love you,” she said over and over.

William reached out and shrieked, “Mommy, please stop!”

Catherine became primal, screaming incoherently at the top of her lungs as she stared into her son’s pleading eyes.

Banging sounds echoed from the door.

Doc Larson had let Lily go and she dropped to her knees and began to wail.

Lane looked into his son’s eyes.  Just five colonists remained.

Amidst the cacophony of screams that reverberated around the small room, Lane choked back memories and emotion, focusing on his visions from Outpost 3 and with a trembling hand pressed the trigger.  They could just hear the punch hit the brake pad again under Catherine’s cry — four remained.

Lily turned and screamed when William’s head exploded.

Catherine set William down on top of Allen and then moved towards Lily.

Lily continued screaming, “No, no, no, no,” over and over and punched at her mother as Catherine picked her up and pushed her into position.

“Mommy, Mommy, no Mommy, please Mommy.”

The machine pressurized, humming.

The door creaked on its hinges.  A cutting torch sparked through the edge of the door, near the hinges.

Lily gasped for air between her shrieks and Catherine shook with sobs.  Lane was numb.

The blow-off valve called and Catherine looked to Lane with an inhuman expression as he leaned over and kissed his screaming terrorized daughter.

“Mommy, please.  Daddy!”

Lane hit the trigger.

Three.

Catherine set Lily down next to William and kissed them both.  And then took her place on the dais.  She squeezed Lane’s free hand waiting for the machine to be ready to kill her.

The torch moved slowly along the perimeter of the door, howling and buzzing against the steel.

Lane looked at Doc Larson to see him wearing an enviro-suit and making the final connections for the helmet.  He walked over, hugged Lane and leaned over and kissed Catherine’s forehead.

“I must know,” he said and pulled on the helmet.

Lane nodded his goodbye and watched Doc Larson disappear into the back service hall as the blow-off valve called time.

Lane stared at his wife.  She was covered in the blood of his children.  Her eyes reminded him of a spooked horse’s and he knew some critical part of her was already dead.

“I love you so much,” Lane cried.

“I love you.  God forgive us.  Do it!”

He hit the trigger.

He caught his wife and dropped her to the floor in front of the machine.

He kissed her one last time and then took his own place, waiting for the machine to pressurize.

The torches cut through the rest of the door and it suddenly crashed to the floor of the Equipment Room.

The alien creature stuck its head into the room and swept it around, at last coming to rest on Lane.  It stared at Lane curiously with four sets of eyes.

Lane was repulsed.  He couldn’t tell where the thing’s armor and body began or ended.  But what renewed his spirit was what the creature wore around his shoulders and neck.  It was a mantle, intricately woven of human fingers that twitched and pulsed with spasms.  In the center of the mantle, below the creature’s head was the face of a young, light skinned girl with green eyes.  The face began at her upper lip and ended just above the frontal lobe portion of her skull.  Tassels of blond hair hung in ringlets.  The fingers were woven into her cheeks.  Her adolescent overbite hung out over nothing.

Her eyes blinked and darted, screaming with pain and the terror of awareness.

That day, separated by years leapt into his mind — the day he and Catherine arrived at Outpost 3.  They had walked into the Rec-room, the floor a sticky crimson mass.  Body parts of the colonists were strewn about the room, twitching dismembered limbs, decapitated bodies and heads and staring crying faces.  It was incomprehensible; arms pulling themselves along the floor by their fingers.