Terminal Freeze

50

Kari Ekberg stumbled down the corridor of C Level, the flashlight slick in her sweaty hands. Her shins ached from where she had barked them on protruding ducts and storage crates; her knees were skinned from half a dozen falls onto unforgiving steel and linoleum floors. Thank God the light and radio still worked. Yet again she forced the dreadful images from her mind: Conti screaming as blood flew in all directions like spray from a rotary sprinkler. Yet again she told herself, over and over, like a mantra: Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

It had taken fifteen minutes to descend the two decks from the officers’ mess: fifteen minutes of unadulterated terror. Now she passed the laundry, ancient washers and dryers standing in silent rows below curling posters exhorting cleanliness. Next was the tailoring shop: a nook barely large enough for a desk, a sewing machine, and a tailor’s dummy. Beyond, the hallway divided. She stopped and fumbled with the radio. Her hands were shaking so badly it took three tries to depress the Transmit button.

“I’m at the hallway junction by tailoring,” she said, hearing the quaver in her voice.

Marshall ’s voice crackled back. “I just reached D Level. Hold on, I’ll radio Gonzalez for directions.”

She stood, gasping for breath, in the close darkness. This was the worst time: standing, waiting for instructions-and waiting for that strange full feeling in the ears, the stealthy tread that signaled the approach of nightmare…

“Make a left,” Marshall ’s electrified voice said. “At the end of the hall, make another left. You’ll see a staircase: go down it. I should be waiting there. If not, radio me.”

Ekberg pushed the radio back into the pocket of her jeans. Turning left, she shone the light around briefly, searching for obstacles, then took off at a jog. She passed the food-preparation areas: empty kitchens, huge porcelain sinks gleaming and spectral. A dozen doorways flashed past, yawning onto rooms black and mysterious. Her knees and shins throbbed fiercely, but she pushed the pain to the back of her mind. Ahead, illuminated by a single bulb, she could see the hallway divide again. Go left, he said. Go left, and you’ll see a…

Suddenly, her foot caught against something and she fell headlong to the floor, her radio clattering away down the corridor, the flashlight rolling against the wall and winking out. God, no, no…

Crawling on hands and outraged knees she felt around frantically for the flashlight. One hand closed over it and, heart in her mouth, she pressed the switch. It flickered, went out, then brightened. Thank you. Thank you. Pulling herself to her feet, she shone the light ahead, searching for the radio. There it was: on the ground maybe ten feet ahead. She raced to it, knelt, scooped it up.

“Hello!” she said, fumbling with the Transmit button. “Hello, Evan, are you there?”

Nothing. Not even static in reply.

“Evan, hello!” Her voice spiked sharply with anxiety and dismay. “Hello-!”

Suddenly she stopped. Something had just set off her instinct for self-preservation, five-alarm. Was that the padding of feet from the darkness behind, heavy and yet horribly stealthy? Was that blood rushing through her ears, or some faint, strange-almost unearthly-singing? Terror coursed through her afresh, and with a sob of despair she jammed the broken radio back into her pocket and forced herself to start running once again. The light at the end of the corridor drew closer. And then she was at the intersection, veering left, shining the light wildly ahead, searching for the stairwell.

There it was: a well of blackness. She dashed up to it and raced down the steps, flashlight clattering against the metal handrail, no longer making any attempt to conceal her panicky flight.

She paused at the bottom step, looking about. Another dim corridor stretched on ahead, desks and tools piled up on either side. It was empty.

She blinked hard, wiped the back of a hand across her eyes, looked again. Nobody.

“Evan?” Ekberg said into the emptiness.

She felt her breathing grow shallower. No, no, no…

And there it was again: that low singing noise, almost like a whisper in her ears. Whimpering, she took a step forward, off the bottom step and into the corridor. She felt an overpowering need to look over her shoulder, up the stairwell. The light twitched in her hand…

“Kari!”

She glanced down the corridor again. A figure had come into view at the far end, a dark silhouette in the low light. With a cry she ran toward it. As it approached she recognized Marshall, worried expression on his face, an automatic rifle slung over one shoulder.

“Kari,” he said, coming up to her. “Thank God. Are you all right?”

“No. It’s after me, the monster, I heard it just now-”

“Hurry.” And with an urgent tug of his hand he led the way back down the hall.

Despite her growing exhaustion, Ekberg followed closely as Marshall traced a circuitous path past storage spaces and repair bays. Once they stopped at an intersection as he tried to recall the correct route. Another time they radioed back to Gonzalez for directions through the labyrinth.

“Where are we going?” she panted.

“The science wing. It’s one deck below. It’s protected by a thick hatch. It’s much safer than the upper decks. And we’ve assembled a weapon, a sonic weapon, that we hope to test on the beast. But first things first-let’s get you safely behind the hatch.”

They reached another stairwell and Marshall practically dove down it, three steps at a time. Ekberg followed as quickly as she could. E Level was a tomb, its low ceilings covered by thick rivers of conduit and cabling. They jogged past several rooms, Marshall ’s light illuminating the way. They turned right at a T junction. And then Marshall stopped so abruptly that Ekberg almost plowed into him.

Ahead the corridor ended at a massive hatchway, thrown wide open, brilliantly lit from the spaces beyond. Just inside was a strange contraption on a wheeled cart, all wires and antennas and electrical components like a confection from a 1950s science-fiction film. Two of the scientists-Faraday and Sully-were toiling over it. Beside them stood Sergeant Gonzalez, machine gun at the ready, pointed in their direction.

“What’s wrong?” Marshall said. “Why isn’t the weapon out here, away from the hatch?”

“No batteries,” said Faraday. “We had to connect it to the power supply inside. This is as far as the wires will reach.”

“Well, for God’s sake,” said Marshall, “find a connection out here!”

“No time,” replied Sully.

“You’re damn right there’s no time! That thing’s behind us, and we can’t compromise the safety of the science wing with an open-”

Marshall stopped in mid-sentence. Then Ekberg became aware of it, too: a creeping presentiment, more sixth sense than sensation, that raised the hairs on the back of her neck and sent fresh fear coursing through her. Once again, every instinct cried out for her to turn and look back. And this time she yielded, glancing over her shoulder.

Around the corner, just within eyesight, a black shape was crawling stealthily down the staircase toward them.