The Void

CHAPTER 23

Zlatan waved his men to a crouch. He momentarily ground his teeth from the pain behind his eyes — the headaches were still there, worse. And he was hungry all the time; not for the shitty protein bars they had all been given to last them the mission, but for something more… substantial.

He looked to his man closest to him — Stroyev — he looked different now. His brow seemed heavier, his entire head elongated. The man had never been handsome, in fact quite ugly. But now his features made him look grotesque. Even his eyes seemed — no, were — larger, and the pupils were glossy black and dominating the entire orb.

He faced away. Maybe I’m seeing things in this damned dust-fog. Or maybe seeing things clearer. He reached up and felt his forehead. There were strange bumps there and the brow was just as heavy as Stroyev’s. Oh Rahda, I wish I’d stayed with you. But he was determined to finish his mission quickly and escape this hellish place. Once home, he knew his fantastic metabolism could heal anything. They’d all be good as new in no time.

Zlatan pivoted, realizing his vision was sharper now and he could see further into the mist. Now he could make out shapes, and his mind formed mental pictures, impressions, without even seeing them.

He peered around one of the slime trunks that seemed to be growing larger by the minute. He knew now their mission was nearly complete as he watched the remains of the downed space shuttle orbiter appear out of the mist.

Getting close, it was bigger than he expected. The craft was 122 feet in length, fifty-nine feet high, and with a wingspan of nearly eighty feet. Both stubby wings had been sheared off, and there was fragment debris everywhere. He could see the long skid line disappearing back into the smog where the shuttle had come in and slid to a halt. Surprisingly, the ship was mainly intact, and looked to have come in on its belly in the semblance of a controlled landing.

Zlatan was impressed. He doubted even the best pilots in Russia could have achieved that landing on a low-visibility mountaintop and inside a crater basin.

The Orlando was mostly buried in the revolting mud, and now it looked as if the slime was trying to claim the fuselage by growing up and over it. Strange fans, nobs, and growths like mushrooms seemed to undulate back and forth across the skin of the craft as though deep underwater and moving in a soft current.

There was a tear in the metal skin of the craft at the bay area, but unexpectedly, the front cockpit hatch was open. Zlatan had been briefed on the American shuttle design, and knew the door could only be opened from the outside with a unique NASA key, or from the inside by the astronauts.

He had no instructions as to what to do if he encountered American astronauts. They didn’t concern him, and as long as they didn’t interfere with his primary objective, they were of no consequence. But if they tried to intervene, then they would be terminated. It would be their choice.

Zlatan motioned for his men to advance. In a line, they moved forward. He and Torshin toward the open cockpit hatch, and Russlin and Stroyev toward the rear.

He shook his head, hard, and scowled — the damned humming or buzzing was becoming more insistent. It even overshadowed the incessant whine within the particle mist. But now the noise was almost understandable as if it was a language. He tried to block it out.

The slime was thickening as they neared the craft, ankle deep, and Zlatan could see it actually spilled from every opening and rent in the skin of the shuttle.

He and Torshin were first to arrive, and they eased along the side toward the open door. His hand went to a pouch at his belt that held a small flashlight, but changed his mind — he didn’t need it anymore, as his eyes seemed perfectly comfortable in the low-light conditions. Zlatan nodded to Torshin and together they slipped inside, knives drawn.

There were no astronauts, alive or dead. As expected, the cockpit was in disarray, but amazingly a few of the tiny lights still glowed indicating that some power and possibly some applications were still running throughout the craft.

At the rear of the cockpit, there were some smashed glass specimen tanks, their contents gone. Torshin squinted at the remaining names still on the broken receptacles, and read in halting English: “Bradypodidae — three-toed sloth. Theraphosidae Arachnida — tarantula spider. Driloleirus — giant earthworm. Orthoptera — crickets. Linepithema humile — Argentinean ant colony.” He snorted. “Maybe the bugs were the ones in charge of the craft.”

Zlatan grunted. “Yes, funny; now find the camera data.”

Torshin straightened and began looking over the control panels. The data should have been stored somewhere transportable so it could be rapidly recovered once the shuttle had landed. This meant the US military could get their hands on their prize before waiting on NASA to release it. Zlatan knew this also meant they probably wouldn’t need to dismantle much of the equipment. All they’d need to do is find the media the images were stored on and eject it.

“Sir.”

The call came from the doorway, and he turned to see Stroyev leaning in through the cockpit cabin hatch.

“What is it?”

“There is something you should see.”

Zlatan turned to Torshin. “Find me that data.” He followed Stroyev outside again and into the broken rear-bay area of the craft. Immediately he was assailed by the smell — rotting plant and animal matter, and something else he couldn’t identify. The particle mist was even thicker inside.

“Look.” Stroyev pointed.

In a cradle was a long piece of jagged stone. It had cracked open, showing a glowing green interior, and looked to be cooling as it gave off smoke-like vapor. Zlatan stared and saw that the vapor was actually the particle mist, and it came in waves, is if from exhalations. There was also a gray sludge seeping from it and plopping to the ground.

“So, this is where our strange mist and slime is coming from.” Zlatan felt an odd attraction to the thing.

The mass inside the rock seemed to throb and drip the ooze. But closer to it, the odor was the most powerful.

“Stinks,” Zlatan said.

Russlin seemed transfixed. “No, I think it smells… glorious.”

“Why would they carry this with them?” Stroyev held a hand up. “I can feel it; it’s warm.” He went to approach.

“Don’t touch that,” Zlatan said sharply. “Maybe they didn’t take it with them, but collected it from space.”

He snorted. “It’s just a rock… filled with hot mud.”

Zlatan went to step closer, just as Russlin’s voice turned his head.

“And these…” Russlin used his knife to lift something orange from the ground. “They’re everywhere, shredded uniforms.” He squinted at the material. “Ripped to pieces.” He looked up. “They tore them off?”

Stroyev snorted. “So, we have some naked American astronauts running around, da?” he bobbed his head, leering. “Was any female?”

Russlin crouched. “Bones.” He gathered a few in his large hands. “And fresh.” He straightened. “These look chewed.” He lifted the two halves of a skull, cracked down the middle. “I think it used to be some type of ugly monkey.”

The skull had huge teeth, more akin to that of a bear or wolf. But the cranium was oddly enlarged, deformed, and with way too many eyeholes.

Zlatan remembered the manifest. “They had live specimens onboard.”

Russlin nodded. “Well, I think maybe someone got hungry.” He grinned momentarily, and then brought it closer to his face and sniffed. He then shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, looking like he was enjoying the perfume. His mouth slowly opened, and his tongue eased out toward it.

“What are you doing?” Zlatan frowned.

“Uh?” Russlin shook his head, and looked confused. “Nothing, it just smelled…” He dropped the skull portions. “…nothing.”

Zlatan looked around. The rear of the shuttle reminded him of something — the remnants of a meal, the balled packing materials, and torn cloth… Then it hit him. A nest. Something was living here. Could it be the astronauts?

He turned, and tried to remember what Torshin had told him about the specimen list. There was nothing larger than a sloth or monkey.

But that skull Stroyev held up looked like neither. Had it changed somehow? Zlatan also remembered the monstrous thing that had attacked them and dragged Naryshkin down below the slime. It slid beneath the ground and burrowed up to get them — like a giant worm. He glanced at the worm specimen tank. Could it be the same thing? A creature that had somehow changed or been changed? By what?

Zlatan looked again at his men. All now seemed bulkier, misshapen. He looked at his hand and saw the fingers looked longer and thicker, and the end two now didn’t separate until nearly the first knuckle. Plus, the nails were darkening and growing more round and sharp like talons.

What would Rahda think?

He turned to the rock fragment. The gas. The smell inside the bay area was overpowering. It was sweet and corrupt like decomposing vegetable matter. He walked toward the fragment of rock in its cradle, feeling the warmth against his face as he approached.

Zlatan stood before it, peering in past the glow and squinting to get a better view. He waved away some of the mist and saw the repulsive blob, like a ball of tangled spaghetti that throbbed and wrestled with itself. Tendrils emanating from a central mass undulated softly and it reminded him of some sort of giant amoeba. His head now thumped mercilessly as he bent forward.

Zlatan was transfixed, and watched as a one of the tendrils reached out and encircled his wrist. He recoiled, cursing, and was about to lash out at it but his mind scrambled and fizzed like static.

“Kapitin.”

“Huh?” He turned, confused. What had he been doing? He couldn’t remember. His memories had been whited out, and there was a small ache in his wrist that made no sense.

Torshin held up a small disc, marked with the serial numbers they’d been told to look for. “Got it.”

Zlatan nodded, relieved. “Good news. We go.” He turned to leave, but his legs momentarily disobeyed him. He wanted to stay. More than anything in his life, he wanted to stay, with the rock, within the ship. He inhaled the gas, the scent was so strong inside the bay area, and its bouquet suddenly seemed intoxicating.

He pushed back; his mission was complete and home was where Rahda was. He shook his head, and then led his three Kurgan out.

He stopped dead, holding up his hand. Zlatan tilted his head, listening. “We have company.”

He squinted, seeing the faint images of the approaching people. “The Americans.” He reached behind him and pulled a four-foot steel rib from the skeleton of the Orlando.

His men did the same, and then spread out into the gloom.