Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
The Phoenix police kept them for hours before they were finally released.
“Looks like you’re legit,” said Knightly. They were all uncuffed.
She perched herself on a desk in the Phoenix police station.
Guppy looked around. It was a different police station than the one that the Skinwalker had escaped from. ”Hopefully we don’t have to burn this one too,” he muttered.
“What?” asked Knightly.
“Nothing,” said Guppy.
“So what can I do for the mysterious, we-don’t-report-our-budget-to-the-American-people Counter-Intelligence Field Agency?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Kate Draper,” said Blade. “Any information you can share would be greatly appreciated.”
Knightly relaxed somewhat. “Draper’s actually the second victim. The first was a young Papago Indian named Paco Yuma.”
”My people prefer the phrase ‘Tohono O’odham’,” said Blade.
“Oh, right.” Knightly nodded. “So anyway, he was murdered on the Tohono reservation in exactly the same way three days before Draper died.”
“Can we see photos of the body?” asked Archive.
“Sure.” She dug out the file and handed it to Archive. “Why?”
Archive flipped through the pictures. “There.” He pulled out one of them. “There’s a single gray dot painted on Yuma’s left hand.” He clicked on his cistron. “And here’s a picture of Draper’s left foot, with two gray dots.”
“Gray dots.” Knightly rolled her eyes. “What are they teaching you guys at school?”
Hammer cleared his throat. “He’s a friendly, actually…” when he caught her gaze, Hammer shrugged. “It’s complicated.”
“We found this piece of paper in Draper’s car,” said Archive. It showed two stick figures, one with a dot next to its left arm and the other with two dots next to its left leg. “I think we have a ritual killing on our hands.”
Blade furrowed his brow. “There is an old Indian legend that I remember my father telling me. There were five evil underworld spirits that plagued the lands of the Kokoham. A shaman called upon the services of five brave sons and daughters, who traveled with the shaman into the desert. Together they confronted the spirits in their lair. The shaman offered his five sons and daughters as sacrifices in exchange for peace with his people. The spirits accepted the offer.”
Archive tapped on his cistron. “It wouldn’t by any chance look like this, would it?”
On the small screen was a complete picture of five stick figures, including the two from the lower right corner that were on Draper’s notes. There were dots numbering one through five on each of them, with an odd-looking face in the center.
“This is from Chants and Rituals of the Sonoran Indian Tribes, by Janice Fletcher.” Archive turned to Knightly. “Do you have a local map of the area?”
“Sure,” she led them over to a large map of southwestern Arizona. “These two red pins indicate the murders.”
Archive’s eyes went wide. “Are you descended from the Kokoham?” he asked Blade.
Blade blinked. He hadn’t expected that question. “I don’t know…” he mumbled. “My father used to rant about it when he was drunk. I think that’s why Palmer took me under his wing. But there’s really no way to prove it…”
“Can you remember anything about constellations at all? I think it ties to the murders.”
Blade considered the question. “There was a star called Sharnoth.”
Archive tapped away on his cistron. “Got it. Sharnoth is a perfectly aligned pentagram of stars inside the constellation of Gemini, although the middle star isn’t visible.”
Blade turned to Guppy. “Can you correlate the remaining three points with that constellation?”
Guppy tapped more keys. “Tapping into the GPCA in Nebraska…got it.” A map of the Arizona desert appeared on the cistrons. The five stick figures appeared on it, two matching the locations of Yuma and Draper’s murders. Then another virtual overlay appeared, indicating the location of the constellations. The cistron beeped as the remaining three sites flickered.
Blade checked his watch and sighed. “We’re too late. My guess is you’ll find your third victim…” he looked at the cistron and then, picking up a pushpin, speared a point on the wall map a couple of inches to the left of Draper’s murder. “Here.”
Knightly nodded. “I’ll send men to check it out. But that means we know where the next murder is going to take place.”
“That’s right,” said Blade with a slow smile. He tapped the fourth spot on the map with one finger. “And in three days, we’ll be waiting.”
Several motorbikes made their way to the ritual. Blade’s heart sank as he saw it was Native Americans.
There were five men with a shaman at the center, also Native American. He was dressed in ceremonial garb.
“Wait for my signal,” whispered Hammer to the police snipers sequestered all around the site.
Blade looked through his binoculars. “That’s John Takoda. A shaman on the Papago Reservation.”
Takoda was a tall, thin man with parchment-like wrinkled skin and long gray hair tied in a ponytail. He wore jeans, a checkered shirt, and cowboy boots.
They carefully bound the man to the ground. He showed no signs of resistance. Then, lifting a knife over the man’s head, he began cutting into his flesh.
“That’s it, go, go, go!”
The agents rushed forward, pistols out. “Hands up! On the ground, now!”
The Native Americans looked up, surprisingly calm. Takoda put his hands up. “Jacob Ironshirt. You have come, as Coyote foretold.”
“Put the knife down,” said Blade. He pointed the pistol at Takoda.
“You have interfered with things that you do not understand. Our people are to be protected, as will all men, women and children of this earth if I am allowed to complete the rituals of banishment.”
“Down!” shouted Hammer.
Takoda shook his head. “If we do not, the lands will be subject to darkness and death, bringing the time when the stars are right ever closer. Our people have long understood sacrifice, a concept lost to your modern ways.
“This is not the way to do it,” said Hammer. “I’m not going to ask you again!”
“I have volunteers who understand that the interest of the tribe come first,” said Takoda. “But now it seems Coyote has sent you to me to serve a higher purpose.”
Takoda resumed the carving of the man’s flesh on the ground.
“Take him out!” shouted Hammer into his mic.
There was the crack of a sniper’s rifle. Hammer’s pistol flew out of his hand. He swore, clutching his bleeding fist. “Son of a bitch, they missed!”
“They didn’t miss,” said Knightly, striding towards them. “Did I mention I’m half-Papago?”
Guppy shouted into his cistron. “Agents compromised! Repeat: agents compromised!”
Blade turned around in shock. “You?”
“Oh I know I don’t look it. But then, you look pretty damn Native American to me and you don’t seem to give two s**ts about your own people.”
The other police officers forced the agents’ hands behind their backs. Blade looked around. They were all Native Americans.
“This is only going to make us look worse,” he said quietly.
The Phoenix cops forced all the agents to their knees and stripped them of their weapons.
“Save your breath,” said Knightly. “Watch and learn.”
Takoda finished carving odd patterns into the man’s skin. He ended it by painting four dots on the man’s right hand. Then he stepped away and chanted.
Something welled up from the sand. Dozens of its long stick legs crawled out of the sand like a spider, raising up a chaotic, wriggling mass. Mouths opened up from the dark torso, revealing teeth the texture of ice shards, opening into deep throats of blackness that gurgled forth phlegm-soup similar to tadpole eggs. The clicking, beating of woody-knolls across its pulsating shape repeated like Morse code.
The sacrificial victim screamed as the thing shambled closer. Takoda stepped out of the thing’s path.
It moved over the man, who screamed again, his voice drowned out by the clicking. When it slithered away, his torso was scoured to the bone in the same pattern that they had found Draper’s body.
Tears streamed down Blade’s face. Hammer watched stoically. Archive watched with frank curiosity. Guppy kept his eyes closed and looked away.
Another hole opened in the sand on the other side of the corpse. The thing crawled into it and seemed to be flushed downwards, the clicking sound disappearing with a loud pop.
“Now do you understand?” asked Takoda.
“I understand you just killed an innocent man,” Blade replied.
Takoda sighed. “Still your eyes have not been opened. Very well. We will see if you change your mind in three days.” He nodded towards Knightly. “Take them to the well.”
They were driven into the desert far off the main roads and taken to a natural dry well. On the surface, wooden boards covered the well decorated with Indian designs. It was clear they had recently been broken with incredible force from the inside.
They were tossed into darkness. The fall, a good twenty feet, was slightly mitigated by the large amount of soft sand at the bottom.
“Everyone all right?” asked Blade.
“I think…” gasped Guppy. “I twisted my ankle.”
Time came and went.
“I think I found something,” said Archive. He pushed away some sand, revealing a glitter of metal in the few shafts of sunlight that made it into the well. “It’s a woman’s bracelet.”
It read: To Kate, Love Always, Liam.
“Someone will come for us,” said Guppy. “I sent a message before we were picked up.”
“It’s been days,” said Hammer glumly. “They should have been here by now.”
“They’re coming soon,” whispered something hideous in Blade’s mind. “You must escape now or they will kill you.”
“They’ll be coming soon,” said Blade. “They’re going to sacrifice one of us. So if we’re going to make our move, we have to do it now.”
“Do what?” asked Archive. “Climb the sheer wall of the well?”
“I will help you,” whispered the voice.
“I can do it,” said Blade. He took a deep breath. Closing his eyes, he pressed his palms against the plastic zip ties. They snapped easily.
Blade dropped them to the ground. Archive looked at them in disbelief. It looked as if they had been chewed through.
“How did you do that?”
“Never mind that,” he whispered. “I’ll take out the guards and get some help.”
Blade put one palm flat against the wall. It stuck, like he was some sort of spider. He pressed his left hand and similar found purchase. One handhold after another, he slowly but surely climbed the walls that no man could possibly have climbed.
“How is he doing that?” asked Hammer.
“Who cares as long as he gets us out of here!” asked Guppy.
A few seconds after Blade cleared the well, one guard fell into the pit. Another fell soon after. The agents ensured they stayed unconscious.
Then their walkie-talkies started squawking.
Guppy dove for one of them. “Oh crap, they’re checking in!” He panicked. “It’s in…Native American, I think!”
“Throw it up to me!” Blade shouted down to them.
Guppy tried, but it merely bounced off the side of the well. It smashed to pieces as it fell.
“I got it.” Hammer grabbed the second walkie-talkie and hurled it up to Blade.
Blade caught the walkie-talkie and spoke into it in another language.
“That should hold them off for a little while,” he shouted down. “See if you can find something to help you climb up.”
“We’ll tie their shirts and pants together,” said Hammer. He turned to Archive and Guppy. “Strip them and make some solid knots. We’ll fashion rope out of their clothes and throw it to Blade.”
They stripped the two guards’ clothes and made a makeshift rope from them. Guppy suddenly noticed the green flicker of a cistron’s power light in the sand. He dug it out.
“I’ll call for help!” shouted Guppy. He flicked it on. The biometrics read his thumbprint…
Guppy stared at it. “I…I don’t understand.”
“What?” asked Hammer. “What is it?” He looked over Guppy’s shoulder. “Oh s**t.”
“What?” asked Archive.
“We’ve been…” Guppy couldn’t continue. He just held up the cistron, glowing in the dark of the well.
In the darkness the screen was clearly visible. It read: DISAVOWED.
“What does that mean?” asked Guppy.
“I don’t know,” said Hammer.
Blade was talking to someone up top. They couldn’t make out his conversation.
“Blade?”
There was no response.
A few minutes later the cistrons began beeping. It read: AGENT COMPROMISED.
Blade cleared the lip of the well. The guards were talking amongst themselves, fiddling with the cistrons, trying to figure out how they worked. They were all run by biometrics, fingerprint recognition. The cistrons wouldn’t work for them, but the guards didn’t know that.
Blade came up behind one guard and grabbed him in a choke hold. With a roar, he flung the man into the well. The guard, cistron and all, went hurdling into the pit.
The other guard drew his pistol. Blade chopped it out of his hand with an open palm jab.
The guard swung at him, but Blade caught the punch easily in his palm. He squeezed, and the guard screamed as his fist dripped blood.
Hurling him like a rag doll, Blade tossed the second guard into the pit.
Then Guppy started shouting about the guards having to check in. A walkie-talkie sailed over the edge of the well. Blade caught it just as the voice on the other end rose in alarm.
“Everything’s fine,” he said in the O’odham dialect. It was difficult – he had always considered himself Apache. His father was Apache, his mother Navajo. The Kokoham lineage was a myth that Palmer used to tell him when he was a child. It made Blade feel better about himself when his father beat him in one of his drunken rages.
But now Blade had a chance to be a hero. He shouted down for his teammates to find something to help them climb up. If they tied the clothes of the guards together…
Up top, nearby cacti suddenly lurched forward, grabbing Blade’s arms as if they were refugees from some Wizard of Oz set.
Out of the darkness strode John Takoda and his men. They were all there: Knightly, the renegade police officers, the entire tribe had turned out to see the last sacrifice. They watched in complete silence.
“Your O’odham needs some work,” said Takoda quietly. “Why are you fighting your destiny?”
“Fighting?” Blade snarled. “Give me my hatchets and I’ll show you fighting.”
“You do not understand.” They tied him up again, his legs too this time. Then they tossed Blade into the back of a jeep. “Think of the dark spirits you have defeated.”
“He’s trying to trick you,” whispered the voice. “Don’t listen to him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snarled Blade.
“I think you do. First you defeated the Traveler. Then Thin Jack. Then the Skinwalker. I dispelled the Festering Shambler. There is but one more spirit and one more sacrifice to be made. Will you not go honorably?”
The jeep bounced along as they drove out to the spot of the sacrifice.
Blade growled. “This is not about honor.” He strained at his bonds. “This is about survival. There is no fifth creature! You’re just killing innocent people for no reason!”
“Kill them,” whispered the voice. “Or they will kill us.”
The jeep squealed to a stop. Takoda’s men lifted Blade out and strapped him down to the ground.
“You will be my high priest.”
“I disagree,” said Takoda. “And deep in your heart, you know the truth. Coyote knows it. Your ancestors know it. Palmer knew it. These sacrifices are why you succeeded. They had to happen, or you would not have defeated those spirits.”
“You will call down the shapes of night to worship me at the times of year.”
“There’s no fifth spirit!” shouted Blade, flailing at his bonds. “This is a bunch of supernatural garbage!”
“You will prostrate yourself before me and in return you will survive when the earth is cleared off for the Great Old Ones.”
Takoda began carving symbols into his flesh. Strangely, it didn’t hurt at all.
“You will go beyond the rim to what stirs out of the light…”
“Are you so blinded that you do not see?” He reached into a small pot of gray paint and placed five dots on Blade’s forehead.
“There’s nothing to see!” shouted something that was not Blade’s voice. It came from one of his palms.
Takoda shined his flashlight on Blade’s open palm. A fanged maw had erupted there like a wart, teeth and a long tongue trailing bloody saliva as it shrieked.
“YOU are the final spirit,” said Takoda sadly. “And the final sacrifice. You are both man’s destruction and salvation.”
He began chanting over Blade’s body.
Blade’s body shuddered. With a roar, he easily snapped the bonds.
The shaman looked down in surprise as an open palm gripped his face, tearing off his nose. He was tossed aside effortlessly.
Bullets thudded into his flesh. The police, the Native Americans, all of them fired, screaming, shouting. It wouldn’t help them.
He was power incarnate, unleashed at last, not in a whimpering pedophile’s body but a strong, healthy one that could withstand some abuse.
He was no longer Blade. He was no longer Kokoham, or Apache, or Navajo.
He was Y’golonac, and he would stride forth from the loneliness of the aeons to walk once more among men.
He tore the shaman in half just as the beeping started. It was in his head. The transformation was almost complete. He wouldn’t need the head soon anyway…
The Academy was nestled comfortably into the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains at the tail end of the Rockies in northern New Mexico. It had the bearing and appearance of an old-world military academy, with the scenery of the mountainous American Southwest.
Caprice, Jim-Bean, Archive, and Hammer acted as pallbearers, solemnly bringing a memorial coffin to the Spire. They marched a path, flanked by Majestic-12 agents, a four-story needle of the flattest black.
Christine and Alex were there, flown in under secrecy. They didn’t know where they were, and wouldn’t have been able to identify it if they tried. They were only there as a result of Drake’s intractable stubbornness, who promised that Outlook could wipe their memories later.
It was the right thing to do, he said.
They tried to find his family, but Jake’s father wouldn’t respond to their calls. His brother was missing. His mother was long dead. And so only Christine and Alex stood in testament to what little family Jake had left on Earth.
Archive cleared his throat. As the only team member with any religious background, it fell to him to speak of the dead.
“Jacob Ironshirt, known to us as Blade, died as he lived. He was loyal to his family and friends, and protected them both when they needed it most. He reached rock bottom and, through sheer force of will, crawled his way back into the light. And now, his journey is complete. Jake can rest in peace knowing that he died, not as a TV star, or as a father, or as a CIFA agent, but as a hero. He will be immortalized in our hearts. May God rest his soul. Amen.”
“Amen,” said the agents as one.
Drake solemnly wrapped up the American flag and presented it to Alex. The boy, eyes wide with tears, took it without comment.
Rifles were fired. And then on a television screen, it was revealed that Drake’s name was etched into the Spire, joining the other two thousand cadets and agents who died in the line of duty.
When it was over, Christine and Alex were whisked away without saying a word. The Outlook team would be gentle, they promised. They would only remember him as a military hero, killed while on reservist duty in Iraq. Drake threatened to kill them if either of them so much as had a headache.
Drake was waiting for the agents in his office. He poured a shot of scotch for each of them.
“To Blade,” he said, tears in his eyes. It rattled the other agents. They had never seen anything but rage from the old man.
They clinked their glasses. “To Blade!”
They all downed it at once. It was strong stuff from his special stash.
“What happened back there, Drake?” asked Hammer. “We got a message we were disavowed?”
Drake put down the shot glass. “You were. If those @$$holes in Majestic-12 had their say, they would have dropped the lot of you.”
“So what happened?” asked Caprice.
“I fought tooth-and-nail to get you reinstated,” he said vehemently. He poured another shot of scotch and poured it into the glasses of everyone within reach. “That’s what I do. I protected my men. I’ve lost plenty in my command. But not that way. Nobody should go that way.”
“So it’s true?” asked Guppy fearfully. “We all have bombs in our heads?”
Drake stared at the wall. “I didn’t believe it. There have always been rumors of a new failsafe. But I didn’t believe them.” He downed another shot. “I should have.”
Guppy rubbed his temples. “So they could blow us up at any time?”
Drake plunked down his shot glass and grabbed the pull. He took a long pull from it. “Not my problem anymore.”
He walked towards the door.
“Not your problem?” Hammer peered at him. “Where are you going, sir?”
“I quit,” said Drake. “Your new case officer starts on Monday. I hear he’s a real hard ass.”
The agents all stared at each other in shock as the door closed behind him.
This scenario, “PX Poker Night,” is a D20 Call of Cthulhu scenario from Dungeon Magazine #96 by Dennis Detwiller. You can read more about Delta Green at http://www.delta-green.com. Please note: This story hour contains spoilers! Please note: This story hour contains spoilers!
Hank “Guppy” Gupta (Smart Hero) played by Joseph Tresca
Kurtis "Hammer" Grange (Fast Hero) played by George Webster
Sebastian “Caprice” Creed (Fast/Smart Hero) played by Bill Countiss
There’s an odd trend in D20 Delta Green scenarios: they seem torn between making the conflict about pseudo-sci-fi topics and blatantly supernatural, magical beings. For an example, see the other introductory scenario for Delta Green, Puppet Shows and Shadow Plays, where a supernatural Coyote helps the agents out. In PX Poker Night, it’s a dimensional shambler.
PX Poker Night has a lot of great ingredients but not much guidance on how to use them. There are no less than twelve characters (not counting the agents, who replaced three of them) that handle the day-to-day duties of Platte Air Force Base. Encountering each of them takes a considerable amount of work, but I really wanted to flesh out their personalities so there were some good foils to role-playing against. I basically just fast-forwarded through the various shifts, wherein one PC got to hang out with one NPC each day. A short amount of role-playing ensued to allow them some time for dialogue. Once all nine were introduced, it was time to introduce the poker game.
I toyed with the idea of playing an actual poker game, but role-playing with the various characters took up plenty of time already, so I just skipped to the crazy event. The other problem I noticed is that the scenario doesn’t provide information in an easy-to-find fashion. Breaking into the armory where the weapons are stored--probably the most important part of the scenario--is obscured as part of a map key.
I debated about adding in the dimensional shambler, but since the agents had already encountered one from before I decided it was time to reintroduce a recurring villain. And the dimensional shambler also provided an excellent form of menace that guided Guppy right into his worst nightmare.
This was one of those games where not everyone showed up, leaving us with just three agents. That’s not usually a problem if all three are stalwarts of sanity. Except one of them is SO NOT.
Defining Moment: The defining moment came when Guppy went bonkers. This was the first time the Tower of Sanity actually collapsed. Mind you, he had it coming…the crystal generator was making everyone bonkers anyway, and it just took a little shove to push poor Guppy over the edge. Of course, being alone with aliens in the dark will do that to you.
Relevant Media
The Warning: by Nine Inch Nails. You don't hear songs that talk about alien contact very often, much less from NIN. But here it is!
Oddcast Virtual Host: Need a talking creepy grey alien but don’t want to role-play it? Oddcast has the answer: pick the virtual avatar, pick its voice, and then type in what you want it to say.
Some say it was a warning
Some say it was a sign
I was standing right there
When it came down from the sky
--The Warning by Nine Inch Nails
NORTH PLATTE, NB--Guppy, Hammer, and Caprice were stationed at the Platte AFB with no explanation. One step up from a military prison, the Spartan base consisted of a dozen buildings and two airstrips in the middle of a Nebraska wasteland some twenty miles from Marion, the nearest town.
They had been given their assignments by cistron, which were promptly taken away. Weapons too. Their assignments were spread across the base, and never together. Guppy came upon his first denizen of the base tinkering with a Chevy Blazer 4x4.
Guppy extended his hand to a trim, wiry redheaded man with blue eyes and a freckled complexion. “Name’s Hank,” he said with a smile.
“O’Shea,” he responded. “Second Lieutenant Mike O’Shea. I’m Executive Officer here at Platte.”
Guppy smiled again. “That is wonderful. Then perhaps you can tell me who is in charge here?”
O’Shea gave him a sideways glance. “You don’t know? You really are new. That’d be Major Louis Sprague. He’s base commander.” He looked Guppy up and down. “And he don’t like foreigners.”
“I’m just as American as you!” said Guppy, getting defensive. “I eat hamburgers and wear jeans and—“
“Hamburgers?” asked O’Shea. “I thought you people didn’t eat cows.”
“No,” said Guppy. “I eat cows just like any red-blooded American.”
“Your accent’s awful thick.”
Guppy sighed. “Look, perhaps we are getting off to a wrong start. I merely want to know what we’re supposed to be doing here. I’m honestly not sure and you’re the first person I’ve met here.”
O’Shea shrugged. “There’s a reason for that. The base staff consists of only twelve airmen.” He nodded at the buildings around them. “So we don’t use much of the place. Once or twice a month, the Air Force flies decommissioned surplus aircraft to the base. It’s the only time we really have to get moving. Sprague doesn’t like it when we don’t hop-to. It’s his way of letting you know your place.”
“What kind of aircraft?”
“Helicopters, trainers, and even some jets. They find their way here before being sold to foreign governments or as scrap. We park the aircraft in the graveyard,” he jabbed a thumb northwards, “Then we mothball them to remove fuel and lubricants and seal up the planes’ mechanical accesses to protect them from the elements.” He looked around. “Annnd that’s pretty much it.”
“Wow,” said Guppy. “That sucks.”
“Yeah, welcome to hell. This place is pretty much the last stop on the road to dishonorable discharge. What you in for?”
Guppy frowned. “A member of my squad died.”
O’Shea’s expression softened. “Sorry to hear that.”
“What about you?”
“Me? I like speed.” He flashed a white grin. “I had my driver’s license revoked for street racing. Then I violated my CO’s order not to drive without a license.” He shrugged. “I hope I can get out of here soon.”
“I hear you man,” said Guppy. “What do we do out here then when there are no planes?”
O’Shea grinned. “Hop in and I’ll give you a ride back to base.”
Guppy climbed into the 4x4. “So I don’t suppose there are any police out here.”
“Hell no,” said O’Shea, gunning the engine. “In fact, I think one of your buddies is security. And since I don’t see him around…”
Before Guppy could protest, O’Shea peeled out with a battle cry of “YEEEEHA!”, hurdling him into the back of the 4x4.
Hammer stood off to the side, watching the only other African-American on the base as he opened the door to the air traffic control room. They nodded at each other.
“Frank Long,” he said.
“Kurtis Grange,” said Hammer. There was no point in using their agent codenames. Everyone on the base seemed to assume he was with the Air Force and he wasn’t inclined to disabuse them of the notion. He only hoped his comrades were smart enough to keep their mouths shut.
They sat at their respective posts as the machinery beeped and whirled around them, watching the sun set.
“What’d you do to get stuck in a place like this?” asked Hammer.
“You know. Got a divorce. Got into debt. It affects a man.”
Hammer nodded. “Knew someone like that. Good man.”
“Yeah? He on the base?”
Hammer shook his head. “He’s dead.”
“Wow. Too bad, man. Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, he had everything going for him. Had turned his life around. I try to look out for his widow and his kid.”
Long nodded. “We didn’t have kids at least. I got transferred out here when my place burned down.”
“Burned down, huh?” Hammer peered at the bald black man. “What’s your job here?”
“Fire/Rescue,” said Long with a straight face. “I used to be a firefighter.”
Hammer didn’t say anything.
“You play poker?” Long said to break the silence.
“A little.”
“Yeah, I was in some really big games in Vegas, back when poker was all the rage. Saturday evenings at eight p.m., rain or shine, is PX poker night on the base.”
“Poker night huh?”
“Yeah. It’s not actually held at the Post Exchange anymore. We play in the bare-bone remnants of the NCO club. Even the Major plays.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Hell yeah!” Long slapped his thigh. “That’s the high point of my week, man. Between that and Baywatch, we keep busy. That…and you can win money from that son of a bitch Sprague.”
Randy Campbell was a fit, well-built, singularly unattractive man. And he had the unpleasant privilege of being stationed with Caprice on guard duty at the front gate.
“Hey,” said Caprice.
Campbell glared at him.
“So what do you guys do here all day?”
Campbell didn’t even look at him this time.
“Not much, huh?”
“When we piss off Sprague, we get guard duty. And I get stuck with you.”
“Hey whatever man.” Caprice held up his hands. “I’m just trying to make small talk.”
“Yeah, well you talking less helps me focus on other things besides the fact that I’m stuck here with you.”
Caprice looked around. There was nothing for miles. Then he walked towards the door.
“Where you going?”
“Me?” Caprice paused. “I haven’t seen any of my buddies for days and I find it a little weird that Sprague keeps splitting us up. So I’m going to go find them.”
“No you’re not. You’re stuck here with me.”
“You obviously got it handled,” said Caprice with a grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before the end of the shift.”
“I don’t think so,” said Campbell threateningly. He stood up from his chair. “Now plant your ass back in the seat. Or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else I beat the crap out of you until you piss blood.”
“You’re going to have to wipe for me then,” said Caprice.
He ducked just as Campbell threw a punch, hitting the door. He swore, shaking his fist.
“You should get that looked at. I’ll get back to you later.”
“You’re dead meat,” said Campbell. “When Sprague finds out about this…”
“He’s not going to find out about it. I’ll keep quiet,” he nodded at the dent in the door, “about you striking an officer.”
Caprice closed the door behind him.
Campbell stared at the door. “He’s no officer…” he said, a little unsure of himself.
PX Poker Night: Part 3 – The Air Traffic Control Tower
To Hammer and Guppy’s surprise, Caprice opened the door to the air traffic control room.
“What are you doing here?” asked Guppy, half-standing up.
“Happy to see me?” asked Caprice. “I decided to check on you guys. I haven’t seen any of you since I got here.”
Hammer nodded. “Today’s the first time we got stationed together.”
“You think they’re separating us on purpose?” asked Guppy.
Caprice nodded. “Yeah. Where’s the rest of the team?”
Hammer shrugged. “Wherever they are, they didn’t make it here.”
“They’re trying to split us up,” said Guppy mournfully. “Mother trucker.”
Caprice walked over to the guard rotation sheet. He flipped through a few of them. “Look at this…we’re not together on any of the rotations!”
“Except this one,” said Hammer.
“And they took away our cistrons and weapons,” said Guppy. He slumped over the console.
“Not all of them.” Hammer patted his back where he concealed his Glock.
Guppy looked up. “We have to get out of here. I wonder if we can make a run for it…”
“Run for it?” Caprice snorted. “You know this isn’t a prison right?”
“How did you get here, anyway?” asked Hammer. “Aren’t you on guard shift?”
Caprice shrugged. “I didn’t feel like it.”
“Sprague will be pissed,” said Guppy.
“What’s he going to do to me…”
They were interrupted by the screech of a truck’s brakes, audible even from the distance at the air tower.
“Uh oh,” said Guppy.
Caprice snatched up the binoculars they kept ready at the console and peered through them. “That’s interesting,” he said after a moment.
“What?” asked Hammer.
“See for yourself.” He handed the binoculars to Hammer.
A large dark van bearing USAF markings and about the size of a UPS delivery truck had pulled up to the main gate of Platte AFB. The driver, a plain-looking man in a suit, waited patiently while Campbell, the sole guard at the gate, talked on the phone.
“You better get back there.” He handed the binoculars back to Caprice. “I think he’s calling Sprague.”
A Chevy Blazer shrieked to a stop in front of the door. Sprague hopped out, and through the binoculars, Caprice could tell he was clearly shouting.
“Too late,” said Caprice.
The van was let in the front gate; it parked near the administration building. Sprague’s 4x4 followed behind them.
Two men in USAF uniforms stepped from the van and stood on each side, taking up guard positions. The man in the suit exited the van to confer with Major Sprague in private.
“I don’t like this,” said Caprice.
“What?”
“Two guards on the van, in full body armor and carrying M-16s with M203 grenade launchers. That’s an awful lot of firepower for an Air Force base in the middle of nowhere, don’t you think?”
The man returned to the van and the guards mounted up. It drove out to an isolated area of the airfield near the mothballed aircraft. Once the van was parked, the guards emerged again and the lights came on in the van. And so it sat, unmoving.
“Think Campbell ratted you out?” asked Hammer.
“All personnel to the NCO club,” blared Sprague’s voice over the intercom. “And Creed, get your ass to HQ.” There was a pause. “NOW.”
Hammer opened the door to a room full of people. It was startling to see so many people in one place – it had been that long since any more than three of them were together.
They were all there: Lynn Carter, the hot chick. Laura Dunsany, the pissy administrative assistant. Brian Lundy, the not-too-bright groundskeeper. Robert Bach, the former special agent. Clark Smith, who still had his tattoos from his gang days. O’Shea, Campbell, and Long were there too. They were all seated around the table, a deck of cards out, cigarettes and ashtrays smoldering. And over it all lorded Sprague.
Major Louis Sprague was a large man in his forties. He had dishwater pale blue eyes and blond feathered hair that gave him an appearance not unlike that of an eagle. It was marred only by the green visor he wore in his role of dealer of the poker game. A cigar dangled from his bloodless lips.
Long nodded at Hammer. O’Shea flashed a grin at Guppy. And Campbell just stood off to the side, arms crossed.
Sprague’s predator gaze focused on Caprice as he entered the room. “You. Why weren’t you at your post?”
Caprice’s expression of resignation meant he knew exactly where this was going. “I took a walk.”
“You took a walk?”
Caprice shrugged. “If you haven’t noticed, it’s pretty boring around here.”
“Boring, huh?” Sprague laughed. “You hear that? He said this place is boring!”
Nobody laughed except Lundy, who was too stupid to know not to.
Sprague stood up. “Now you listen to me, @$$wipe. I’m the king here and this is my kingdom. And you’re not a prince, or a knight, or even a serf. You’re a god damned peasant, and you live or die in this place by my good graces. Right now you’re teetering on a knife’s edge, so I suggest you choose carefully what you say next or I’ll bounce your ass out of here so hard your momma will feel it.”
“That’s a very nice speech,” said Caprice, “but don’t you think—“
“That’s it.” Sprague tossed a key to Campbell. “Take this joker back to the unused dormitories and lock his dumb ass in there until I decide what to do with him.”
Campbell cracked his knuckles. “With pleasure.” Campbell walked over to Caprice and grabbed his shoulder.
Sprague turned to the others. “This is what happens when you disobey orders. Say goodbye to your career.” He addressed Campbell again. “If he resists, punch him in the face.”
“Please,” said Campbell with a menacing grin. “Resist.”
Caprice sighed. “I’m the lucky one. I don’t have to spend it with Major Douchebag.”
“Get him out of here,” snarled Sprague.
Campbell marched him out. The door slammed shut behind him.
“Where was I?” Sprague started dealing cards. “Oh yeah. The van parked in the graveyard is to be avoided. Don’t interfere with the visiting staff’s operations. You’re all confined to the base until the visiting staff has left.” He dealt a full hand to the two spots with empty stools. “So take a seat boys and ante up. We’re going to be here for awhile.”
Campbell half-shoved Caprice most of the way to the dormitories.
“Don’t have a brig, huh?”
“Do you ever shut up?” snarled Campbell.
“Don’t you find it a little odd that there’s a van we’re not supposed to interfere with on base here? I thought all we did was service planes.”
“Unlike you, I follow orders,” said Campbell. “And I plan to get out of here.”
“When is that exactly?” asked Caprice. But he didn’t get an answered.
Campbell unlocked the door. “Get in.”
Caprice peered into the darkness. Campbell planted one foot on his back and kicked him in.
The door slammed behind him. There was the jangle of the padlocked chain around the door handle as Campbell locked it. The door didn’t actually lock from the outside.
There was only a peephole as Caprice’s window to the outside world. It was clear it wasn’t meant to be used for incarcerating prisoners.
Caprice could get out if he wanted to. The windows weren’t barred. The only obstacle was Campbell and his M-16.
“You notice anything weird about that van?” he asked through the thin door.
Campbell sighed but didn’t say anything.
“Why were they all wearing motorcycle helmets? That’s not standard issue.”
“Like you know anything about standard issue,” said Campbell. “You’re not an officer either.”
“Yeah, well you’re a pretty poor imitation of an airman so we’re even.”
Campbell turned suddenly and punched the door. It rattled from the impact. “You know, your face is starting to piss me off.”
“My face?” asked Caprice. He tried not to laugh. The man couldn’t even see him.
“You’re really starting to piss me off,” said Campbell. “You think it’s funny? You think you’re better than me?”
“I uh didn’t say that,” said Caprice. He didn’t like Campbell’s new tone. It had shifted from surly to aggressive. He backed away from the door.
“I’m gonna come in there and…” Campbell trailed off.
Caprice stared at the doorknob. Nothing happened.
After a minute of silence, Caprice asked. “Campbell?”
He peered through the peephole.
Campbell was staring at the door. His face was oddly curved through the peephole, twisting his features into a monstrous parody with a long nose. Caprice’s eyes were bulging. His mouth hung open in mid-speech.
“Campbell? Buddy? You okay?”
Campbell didn’t respond.
“Anybody?” shouted Caprice. “I think Campbell had a stroke or something.”
A long trail of glistening drool spilled over the edge of Campbell’s lip.
Caprice pulled open the door as far as it would open, enough so that he could push his face through the door. “Hey. Campbell?” whispered Caprice through the opening. “You feeling all right?”
Campbell didn’t respond. He was frozen in mid-rage like a mime, one finger pointed at the door, as if he would jab his finger right through Caprice’s skull. His pupils had shrunken to dots.
“Campbell?”
Nothing.
“I don’t want to do this to you dude, but I figure if this won’t wake you up nothing will.” Caprice took a deep breath. Then he reached down into his toes and the back of his throat, gargled up a wad of phlegm, and with perfect precision, hocked a yellowish glob of spit.
It hurled over and over through the air. Caprice watched it tumble in slow-motion.
The gob of spit and phlegm struck Campbell in the cheek. It slowly slid down the side of his cheek and joined the trail of spittle down his chin.
“…kick your ass!” screamed Campbell. His body jerked into action.
“Welcome back,” said Caprice.
Campbell reached up, touching his cheek. A string of spit and phlegm stretched from his finger to his face. Campbell’s face turned red.
“You spat on me, you son of a bitch?”
“Now wait a minute…”
He unholstered the M-16 from his shoulder. “I’ll F**#$%G KILL YOU!”
Caprice dove down from the door. The machinegun fire peppered the door, the M-16 rattling with all the rage that was bottled up in Campbell. It was so loud that all Caprice could do was cover his ears and scream.
The door shuddered as if pounded on by a thousand fists. Caprice couldn’t believe it was still standing—the door dangled from the frame by the lock alone.
The machinegun fire went on and on. Caprice kept screaming. He emptied the entire clip.
Finally, silence. Gunfire still echoed in Caprice’s ears; he could feel the vibration in his chest.
Caprice crawled to his knees. Beyond the door was silence once more.
The door’s wood was splintered so much that he could see through it. The dark shadow of Campbell was there. One arm was lifted, as if he was holding his head.
Caprice slowly reached for the doorknob.
He peered through the holes. Campbell had something pointed at his head.
Hammer looked up from his cards. He thought he heard something.
Guppy was still staring intently as his own hand, struggling to figure out the game. Long exchanged glances with Hammer.
Long won the hand. “Piss break, chief?” he asked.
Sprague took his cigar out of his mouth. “Make it fast.”
Long nodded, but the nod was more in the direction of Hammer. They both got up.
In the rest room, Long tapped his hand on the urinal.
Tap-tap-tap.
“You okay?” asked Hammer, next to him.
Tap-tap-tap.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You seem a little tense.” Hammer zipped up and washed his hands. “Something weird’s going on. Did you hear that gunshot?”
“You heard it too?” Long zipped up and walked over to the other sink. He tapped his foot as he washed his hands.
Tap-tap-tap.
Hammer didn’t bother to point it out. “I think we should check it out. How long do you think we have?”
“A few minutes, tops,” said Long. “I’ve got your back. Let’s go.”
“Thanks man.” Hammer slid out of the men’s restroom, looked both ways, and then made his way to the door. Sprague, involved in trying to teach Guppy the nuances of poker, didn’t notice.
Hammer jogged his way across the field. He skidded to a stop as he saw Campbell lying in a pool of his own blood.
“Hot Pants? You in there?”
Long picked up the M-16, eyes glazed. “I don’t like this.”
There was a low moan from behind the door. Hammer kicked it open and the door gave easily, lock and all.
At first he thought Caprice was dead. But then he realized that he was on the ground, clutching his head.
Long reloaded the M-16 with a spare clip off of Campbell’s body.
Hammer got down on one knee. “You hurt?”
“The sound…” groaned Caprice, rolling around. “You can’t hear it?”
Hammer helped him to his feet. “What sound? What the hell happened?”
Caprice tried to clear the cobwebs, blinking. “I…I’m not sure. Campbell went nuts. Then there was a gunshot…”
Hammer nodded. “He shot himself in the head.”
“Jesus…” Caprice looked down, gingerly stepped around Campbell’s corpse. “What the hell?”
“I don’t know.” Hammer patted the pistol snug in his waistband. “But I think it has to do with--”
“IT’S IN THE VAN!” shrieked Long at the top of his lungs. He was charging towards the van, firing wildly.
“Stand down, sir!” shouted one of the men through an amplifier in his helmet, weapon raised.
“THEY’RE TREATING US LIKE RATS!” shouted Long. He didn’t slow his stride.
“Open fire!”
Both guard let loose, with their M-16s. Long crumbled with another piteous shriek.
Hammer took Campbell’s pistol and tossed it to Caprice. “Let’s get the others and get the hell out of here.”
Sprague looked up from his cards. His gaze fell on Caprice as Hammer led him into the room.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
The others all looked up.
“Campbell and Long are dead, sir,” said Hammer. “I found Caprice on the floor.”
“On the floor?” asked Sprague. “That’s nice. He was incarcerated so I think he should stay there.”
“Sir, maybe you didn’t hear him,” interjected Smith. He got up from the card table, his posture menacing. “He just said that two of our men are dead.”
“I heard what he said,” snarled Sprague. “And it’ll be handled.”
“I think this has something to do with the van,” said Guppy.
Sprague placed his cigar in a nearby ashtray. “That’s exactly my point. There are professionals on site who are going to deal with this.”
“The guards at the van shot Long dead,” interjected Hammer.
“Then he got too close. Now it’s unfortunate about Campbell—“
“Unfortunate?” asked Smith. “He’s dead, for Christ’s sake!”
“And as far as I’m concerned we may be staring at his killer,” said Sprague. “Hammer, I want you to handcuff Creed to the chair.”
“Sir, if you’d just listen—“ began Hammer.
Sprague reached down and came up with a pistol pointed at Hammer’s head. “I said,” Sprague repeated slowly, “handcuff him.” He cocked the pistol. “I am NOT going to ask you AGAIN soldier!”
In a flash, Hammer’s Beretta was out aimed at Sprague. “Put the pistol down.”
“Where the hell did you get that?” shouted Sprague.
“Everybody calm down,” said Guppy.
Smith slowly edged around the side of the table towards Sprague…
The lights flickered. For a split-second Sprague looked away.
There was the blinding flash of two pistols firing in rapid succession. When the lights came back on, Sprague was on the ground, gasping and writhing, blood pumping from a wound in his shoulder. Hammer was still standing, his gun barrel smoking.
Smith was slumped over the table, face down, blood spreading all over the cards.
“All right, I’m taking charge.” Hammer’s pistol brooked no argument. “Dunsany, try to bind the Major’s wounds with whatever we’ve got in here. Hot Pants, search the Major’s quarters, see if you can find those papers he received from the men in the van. Guppy, get us into the armory.” He looked around. “I need someone who’s good with a rifle.”
Bach stepped forward. He was a tall, well-built man with small patches of grey speckling his full head of brown hair. “I’m your man.”
“Good.” Hammer picked up Sprague’s Beretta and tossed it to Bach.
“I thought you said you needed a rifleman?”
“I do; that’ll help you get one.” He nodded at O’Shea. “I need a driver. You up for it?”
O’Shea brightened. “Hell yeah! What you need me to drive?”
Guppy, Caprice, Long, Hammer, and O’Shea met at the snowplow.
Several hangers had been turned into parking garages for the base’s vehicles. O’Shea was in the idling two-and-a-half-ton three-axle truck with a snowplow mounted on the front.
“No luck on the weapons,” said Guppy. “I got through the first two locks, but the third is a combination. I could break into it if I had my tools, but we don’t have the time.”
“Did you find anything in Sprague’s room that might suggest a combination?” Hammer asked Caprice.
Caprice shook his head. “Nope. But I did find a stack of papers talking about a SONNET device. Something about all non-MOONDUST personnel deemed expendable.”
“S$%t,” cursed O’Shea. “You think they mean us?”
“You could say that.” Caprice handed O’Shea a color print out with his photo on it. “They’ve got profiles on all twelve of us.”
“Whatever this SONNET thing is, it’s got to be in that van,” said Hammer. “O’Shea? On my mark, you ram the van. Keep the plow up and in front of the windshield for as long as you can.”
“Right.” O’Shea revved the engine.
“Bach, Long had the only M-16. So you’re going to have to get it off his dead body. It’s about forty yards out from the van. Think you can get to it?”
Bach’s expression was grim. “If O’Shea can provide enough of a distraction, maybe. What about you guys?”
“We’re going to loop around back and come at them from the other side. Hopefully, one of us will make it.”
“This is a s&!++y plan,” said Bach.
“It’s the best we’ve got,” said Hammer. He drew his Glock. “On my mark. Ready? Go!”
The truck squealed into action, peeling out with the huge plow blade at the forefront. Running behind it for a few yards, Hammer, Caprice, Guppy, and Bach ran at a full-out clip behind it.
Gunfire started peppering the plow. Hammer, Caprice, and Guppy peeled off to the left. Bach peeled off to the right, sprinting towards Long’s body.
They fired their pistols blindly, but the guards didn’t flinch.
Bach made it to Long’s body. He dove to the ground and came up with the M-16.
Gunfire continued to pepper the truck with the snowplow. Suddenly, O’Shea jerked the wheel, turning the truck so hard that it nearly tipped over.
Bach inserted a clip into the M-16 and lifted it to his shoulder.
“BACH!” shouted Hammer. “LOOK OUT!”
Bach was so intent on firing at the van that he didn’t have time to react. The plow blade ripped his torso upwards, snapping organs and tendons. Bach let out a brief shriek before his lungs fell out of his rib cage. The truck thump-thumped over his legs.
“Jesus!” shouted Caprice.
“Hot Pants, give me your gun!” Hammer pointed at the plow. “Get that thing moving!”
Caprice tossed his pistol to Hammer. Then he and Guppy sprinted to the idling truck.
Hammer fired a series of well-placed shots at the van, still advancing. This time the shots were on target enough to give the guards pause. They took cover around the side of the van, returning burst fire.
Caprice made it to the plow. O’Shea was dead; his sudden turn had exposed him to machinegun fire.
Caprice was in the middle of reaching for the door handle when he fell to the ground, clutching his eyes.
“What is wrong?” asked Guppy.
“The lights! Can’t you see them? Ahhh!”
Guppy opened the door and rolled O’Shea’s body out. Then he dragged Caprice to his feet and shoved him into the truck.
Machinegun fire echoed beyond the truck’s plow. Hammer was keeping the guards busy, but even a crack shot like him couldn’t keep them occupied for long.
Guppy clambered into the truck. “Hold on tight,” he shouted.
Guppy released the clutch and slammed his foot on the gas pedal.
The guards weren’t concerned about precision. They sprayed the area with weapons fire whenever they thought they could get a shot. It was all Hammer could to do keep their heads down.
What the hell was taking Caprice and Guppy so long?
Then he was at the van. It reverberated with an odd humming sound.
“Delta team, this is SONNET,” came a man’s voice from inside the van. “Situation critical. Backup requested.”
Hammer threw open the door to the back of the van and hopped inside, yanking it closed behind him. He surprised two other men in bulky helmets similar to the guards, sans armor. Their attire gave the distinct impression of humanoid insects.
A large electronic device filled the back half of the van. Visible through a small glass window in a safe-like door of the device was a glowing piece of crystal. A chemically powered crystal slowly ticked digital time.
The men drew their own pistols.
Before anyone could say anything, a horrible whine and electrical sizzle racked the van. Something brilliantly blue and white floated overhead, obliterating all shadows. Energy arced between the men’s helmets and the surfaced of the van, their bodies twitching and jerking. Red and white gushes of fluid spilled out from beneath their helmets.
There was another sizzle and pop from outside. Through the bulletproof windows, Hammer could see that the lights in the base went out, plunging the place into darkness except for the glow of the ship hovering overhead.
Then the crystal craft suddenly plummeted, sporadically glowing, falling among the mothballed aircraft on the north end of the base. It hit the grounded aircraft with a series of reverberating booms.
The crystal in the device pulsed brightly once, then faded into a dull glow. It was completely dark, except for the glow from the crystal.
It took a moment for Hammer to realize he was still alive and the two scientists were dead. One man was slumped over the wheel in front, also dead. Their helmets slowly rolled off their sagging necks – there was nothing but bloody fluid where their heads had been.
He caught sight of a well-marked mechanical lever labeled “emergency shutdown.” Hammer pulled the lever.
The crystal slowly dropped into a lead-lined safe at the bottom of the device. The pulsing stopped.
Hammer cocked his head. Something was roaring towards the van....
The crystalline ship lay among the wreckage of the aircraft on the north side of the base, about a half-mile from the barracks and NCO club.
Guppy hopped out of the truck. Caprice stumbled out of the door on the passenger’s side.
The van was flipped on its side. Headless bodies were littered around it.
Guppy and Caprice picked up the discarded M-16s. “Hammer?” asked Caprice.
The doors to the van swung open and Hammer crawled out.
“You okay?” asked Guppy.
“I was until you hit me with the snowplow,” muttered Hammer.
“Good job on the guards,” said Caprice. “What did you do, explode them with your mind?”
Hammer shook his head. “Wasn’t me.”
“Then what did this?” asked Guppy.
Hammer’s gaze was unfocused, staring past him. He slowly rose one finger to point. “Them, I think.”
Two beings walked away from the crash site. They stood at four feet tall with Grey skin. Their bodies were elongated and lacking in muscular definition. Their legs were shorter and jointed differently than a human, giving them an awkward gait. Their arms were raised in an exaggerated gesture of surrender: arms up, far away from each other. Their hands had three digits and a thumb on each hand. They had a bulbous, hairless head supported by a thin neck, which was dominated by large, black lidless eyes. They had small flat noses, small mouths and small ears.
A glowing ball followed behind them. The apparent leader held a piece of crystal atop its head, balancing it carefully and replacing it when it fell to the ground.
Guppy screamed and cowered behind the van.
“What the hell…?” asked Caprice in surprise. He looked back and forth from Guppy to the Greys.
The leader said in a deep voice with no nasal quality to it at all, “Us require assistance, our dog are injured, and must be freed before it ceases. Us are weak, and the door are beyond our capacities. Us require assistance.”
The crystal fell off the leader’s head. It struggled to pick it back up.
“You’re afraid of these things?” asked Hammer in disbelief.
“You don’t understand!” shouted Guppy, concealed behind the van. “You don’t know what they did to me!”
“You guys bring pets with you?” asked Caprice skeptically.
“Dog are injured. Will cease soon. Us require assistance.” The Grey leader restored the crystal to its head.
“Yeah, we get it,” said Hammer. “We need help with a crystal in the van. We think it’s the same device that crashed your ship.”
“Us will help after assistance.”
“I get it. Fine, I’ll go.” Hammer checked the ammunition in both pistols. He took a few more clips from the headless bodies around the van. “You coming?”
Caprice glanced backwards at the van. Guppy remained silent, still hiding.
The ship was a thirty-foot diameter saucer, twelve feet from top to bottom. The entire exterior is made of a dull-like material that looks like lead. Three curved triangular windows protrude from the front of the craft. Although it seemed to have crashed, the surface was unmarked. The runway was pitted from the impact. The craft glowed dimply and surrounding the hull was debris from the inside of the ship, including three badly burned Grey bodies.
Hammer stepped up to the ship. “I don’t suppose there’s a door here anywhere…”
A single entry ramp opened from the bottom center of the craft. The craft rose slightly to allow the small steps to lower. Mist spilled out of the entrance, glowing with a yellow light.
Inside was a low-ceiling interior made of a soft red-brown adobe-like material. It was carefully and ergonomically shaped. The ceilings were gracefully arched and the corridors serpentine and smooth. The floors were made of a shiny black material which was covered in tiny green and purple writing. Every square foot of the ceiling was covered in tiny sigils.
The Greys entered behind Hammer. The tunnel interior seemed much larger than the exterior of the craft would allow. It was littered with strange objects.
The tunnels beyond branched in three different directions. A smashed Grey body lay in the center tunnel, its arms broken at both the forearms and shoulders. The Greys walked ahead of Hammer, ushering him on.
The room was spherical and all the surfaces seemed to be made of clay. A very large chunk had peeled off in a thick strip and pinned a small hideous creature to the ground.
“What the…” Hammer leaned closer to take a look at the “dog.”
It was approximately six feet long, not much bigger than a human being, and was built somewhat like a crab, composed of sponge-like material covered in irregularly-spaced bits of chitinous exoskeleton. The part that appeared to be the head changed colors as Hammer watched, from red to blue and back again. It had no offensive-looking teeth or claws.
“This is your dog?”
The Greys started moving the rubble, although it was no more effective than children digging with their bare hands. Hammer started hefting some of the pieces off when Guppy ran in, panting.
“Guppy?”
“Hammer!” shouted Guppy, eyes wild.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s back!” shouted Guppy. His eyes were practically bulging, panting from the exertion. “It’s back!”
“What’s back? It’s got to be pretty bad for you to be in here…” Hammer gestured around him.
Guppy was careful to not look around. “I…uh…”
“What is it?” said Hammer, lifting another piece of rubble and tossing it aside.
Guppy and Hammer worked together to lift the last piece of rubble off of the crab-like thing. It made a buzzing squeal noise that sounded like a bad recording of a dog’s whimper.
“There,” said Hammer. “Your dog is free. Now we need your help with—“
The lights went out.
Cold tiny fingers clawed at his arms. Hammer blindly swung outward, knocking one of the Greys down with ease.
Guppy made a low moan of terror.
The ball of light, which dimmed along with the lights in the ship, suddenly illuminated, blinding them. It zipped out of the room.
Hammer swung blindly with one pistol in his hand. The “dog” was gone, along with the light. The Greys were lifeless on the ground, having fallen where they stood. And Guppy pointed a shaking pistol at him.
“Guppy, what is wrong with you?”
“They’ll never take me!” screamed Guppy. He squeezed the trigger.
Hammer spun as the bullet punched a hole through his shoulder. He hit the ground hard.
Guppy kept firing. He was shooting bullets in the heads of the Greys. Their spongy heads jerked with every pistol shot.
Hammer lifted his pistol and took careful aim.
Guppy looked in shock as his pistol was shot out of his hand. He turned to look at Hammer, eyes brimming with tears.
Hammer didn’t give him a chance to react. He slammed into Guppy with a flying tackle. Despite the pain, he was still stronger than Guppy. He shifted the smaller Indian man into a headlock and held him there.
Guppy gasped and wheezed, clawing at Hammer’s face. Eventually, his struggling ceased.
Caprice was at the entryway. “What the hell are you two doing in here?”
“Long story,” said Hammer. “Help me with Guppy.”
They helped Guppy to his feet.
“There’s something big and ugly outside,” said Caprice. “It keeps fading in and out. I heard some people screaming…I think it got to the staff in the NCO Club.”
“We have to get to the truck,” said Hammer. “And then we have to get the hell out of here.”
Caprice pointed at the bloodless grey bodies. “What about them?”
“Leave them. We can call in a team to clean it up later. If there’s anything left of them worth cleaning up.”
They made their way to the ship’s exit. The van and truck were still there, with one exception.
“What happened to the bodies?” asked Hammer as they half-carried, half-dragged Guppy to the truck.
“That dimensional whatever was eating them,” he said. “Picks the bodies up and disappears with them.”
They threw Guppy into the back of the truck. Then Hammer got into the driver’s side.
Caprice opened the door on the passenger’s side just in time to see a ghostly claw slash through the truck’s steering wheel, shredding Hammer’s chest and tearing the door off in the same motion. He hit the ground ten feet away, unconscious.
“S#!T!” shouted Caprice, hopping backwards from the truck.
Slowly, the thing unfurled itself in the center of the truck’s engine. Its hide hung loosely upon its frame, and its rugose, dead-eyed rudiment of a head swayed drunkenly from side to side. Its forepaws were extended, with talons spread wide, and its whole body was taut with murderous malignity despite its utter lack of facial description. It reached for Guppy’s inert form.
In the distance, Caprice could hear a heavy thumping in the air, but he ignored it. He had been suffering from hallucinations ever since the SONNET machine was turned on.
“Hey!” shouted Caprice. “Over here!”
The thing ignored him, reaching through the cab of the truck for Guppy’s head.
Caprice raised his pistol with both hands and took aim. He squeezed off two shots at the thing’s head. It went right through it.
“Hey! Over here!”
The shambler turned around, its dead eyes focusing on him. Then it slowly sank into the truck.
Caprice finally pinpointed the source of the sound. It was an AH-65 helicopter.
“Not so tough…” began Caprice when he felt the thing’s unnatural presence prick his skin.
“Down!” shouted the pilot through the chopper’s amplified speakers.
Caprice ducked down as the chaingun let loose metal hellfire on the shambler behind him.
The agents were flown out to Offut Air Force base in Omaha, where they received excellent medical care.
Caprice was the only one not drugged up. When Sprague walked into the room, he wished he was.
Major Sprague was in full military dress. “Surprised to see me?” he asked with a deadly smirk.
Caprice didn’t say anything.
“That’s what I thought. Yeah, I’m part of Majestic-12 too. Longer than you’ve been in the club, that’s for sure. We think that the Greys fled because Agent Guppy here was carrying alien weapons technology in direct violation of the Accord—“
“Fled? We weren’t carrying any weapons! You took them away from us, remember?”
Sprague waved him off. “We were all affected by the SONNET testing. Who’s to say what happened? From here on out, its regulation arms only.”
“Wait…Majestic-12 tested that weapon on us?”
“We were an unfortunate casualty,” said Sprague. “The base was an area where Greys are active. Majestic-12 had to test the SONNET weapon as a safeguard if the Greys ever break the Accord.“
“What’s the Accord?”
“Don’t worry about it. All you need to know is that the mission was a resounding success. Going forward, there will be none of these hocus-pocus missions dealing with supernatural bull$#!t. You’re still a part of CIFA and it’s time you started acting like it and defending this great nation.”
“What happened to the other personnel?”
“Besides you three?” Sprague looked around. “There are no other personnel. Never were.”
“You’re a real @$$hole, you know that?”
“That may be, but you’re going to learn to love me.”
Linear Mode
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