and falling -
Hayes went on his ass.
Teetered and fell and it was probably the only thing that indeed saved him, kept his mind from going to sludge. He hit the floor, fell back and cracked his head against a table and that buzzing was gone. Not completely, there was still a suggestion of it there, but its grip had been broken.
And he came to himself and realized that it had taken hold of him, that thing, and nobody would ever make him believe different. He could hear Lindâs voice in his head saying,
Canât you feel it getting inside your head, wanting to steal your mind . . . wanting to make you something but what you are?
Hayes scrambled to his feet, smelling the thing and hating it and knowing it somehow from some past time and the revulsion he felt was learned and instinctual, something carried by the race from a very distant and ancient time. What he did next was what any savage would have done when a monster, a beast was threatening the tribe, invading it, trying to subvert and steal away all that it was: he looked for a weapon.
Panting and half-out of his mind, he stumbled through Gatesâ makeshift laboratory, past the two thawing horrors and amongst tables of instruments and chemicals. He wanted fire. His simplified brain told him the thing had to be burned, so he sought fire, but there was nothing. Acid, maybe. But he was no chemist, he wouldnât know acid if he saw it.
And in those precious seconds that he stumbled drunkenly through the hut, he could feel that buzzing in his head rising up again and he looked over his shoulder at the Old One, certain now it would be rising up, those bulging red eyes seeking him out with a flat hatred and those branching tentacles reaching out for him -
But no.
It lay there, dreaming meat.
But its mind was alive and he knew that now, could feel it worrying at his will, and that was insane because there was an incision just beneath that starfish-shaped head and he knew without a doubt that Gates had removed its brain. That even now it was sunk in one of those jars around him, a fleshy and alien thing like a pickled monstrosity in a sideshow.
Yet, its mind was alive and vibrant. The idea of that made hysterical laughter bubble up the back of Hayesâ throat and then he saw the axe hanging by the fire extinguisher and then his hands were on it, gripping it with a primitive glee. He raced back at the thing, knocking a table of fossils over in his flight. He was going to chop that motherfucker up, hack it to bits.
And he meant to.
He stood over the thing, axe raised and then the buzzing rose up, felt like a fist taking hold of his brain and squeezing until the agony was white-hot and he cried out.
The axe fell from his fingers and he went down to his knees.
Fight or flight.
He crab-crawled to the door, fumbling it open and falling out into the screaming polar night. He got the door shut, those frozen winds slapping him none too gently back into reality. He found his mittens, put them on and pulled himself along the guylines back to Targa House, the door of Hut #6 wide open, hammering back and forth in the wind.
He looked over his shoulder only once, thinking he saw some lurid alien shape moving through the blowing snow at him . . .
12
T he next morning, before they started their day, the boys were hanging out in the community room, chewing scrambled eggs and bacon, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes, doing a lot of talking.
âIâll tell you guys something,â Rutkowski said. âLaHune is some kind of fucking nut about all this. No communication, no email . . . I mean, what the hell? Whatâs all this James Bond shit about? Because of those dead things that might be aliens? Jesus H. Christ, so what? What if they are? He canât lock us down here like prisoners. It ainât right and somebodyâs gotta do something about it.â
St. Ours lit another cigarette from the butt of his first, flagrantly ignoring the NO SMOKING
Hayes went on his ass.
Teetered and fell and it was probably the only thing that indeed saved him, kept his mind from going to sludge. He hit the floor, fell back and cracked his head against a table and that buzzing was gone. Not completely, there was still a suggestion of it there, but its grip had been broken.
And he came to himself and realized that it had taken hold of him, that thing, and nobody would ever make him believe different. He could hear Lindâs voice in his head saying,
Canât you feel it getting inside your head, wanting to steal your mind . . . wanting to make you something but what you are?
Hayes scrambled to his feet, smelling the thing and hating it and knowing it somehow from some past time and the revulsion he felt was learned and instinctual, something carried by the race from a very distant and ancient time. What he did next was what any savage would have done when a monster, a beast was threatening the tribe, invading it, trying to subvert and steal away all that it was: he looked for a weapon.
Panting and half-out of his mind, he stumbled through Gatesâ makeshift laboratory, past the two thawing horrors and amongst tables of instruments and chemicals. He wanted fire. His simplified brain told him the thing had to be burned, so he sought fire, but there was nothing. Acid, maybe. But he was no chemist, he wouldnât know acid if he saw it.
And in those precious seconds that he stumbled drunkenly through the hut, he could feel that buzzing in his head rising up again and he looked over his shoulder at the Old One, certain now it would be rising up, those bulging red eyes seeking him out with a flat hatred and those branching tentacles reaching out for him -
But no.
It lay there, dreaming meat.
But its mind was alive and he knew that now, could feel it worrying at his will, and that was insane because there was an incision just beneath that starfish-shaped head and he knew without a doubt that Gates had removed its brain. That even now it was sunk in one of those jars around him, a fleshy and alien thing like a pickled monstrosity in a sideshow.
Yet, its mind was alive and vibrant. The idea of that made hysterical laughter bubble up the back of Hayesâ throat and then he saw the axe hanging by the fire extinguisher and then his hands were on it, gripping it with a primitive glee. He raced back at the thing, knocking a table of fossils over in his flight. He was going to chop that motherfucker up, hack it to bits.
And he meant to.
He stood over the thing, axe raised and then the buzzing rose up, felt like a fist taking hold of his brain and squeezing until the agony was white-hot and he cried out.
The axe fell from his fingers and he went down to his knees.
Fight or flight.
He crab-crawled to the door, fumbling it open and falling out into the screaming polar night. He got the door shut, those frozen winds slapping him none too gently back into reality. He found his mittens, put them on and pulled himself along the guylines back to Targa House, the door of Hut #6 wide open, hammering back and forth in the wind.
He looked over his shoulder only once, thinking he saw some lurid alien shape moving through the blowing snow at him . . .
12
T he next morning, before they started their day, the boys were hanging out in the community room, chewing scrambled eggs and bacon, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes, doing a lot of talking.
âIâll tell you guys something,â Rutkowski said. âLaHune is some kind of fucking nut about all this. No communication, no email . . . I mean, what the hell? Whatâs all this James Bond shit about? Because of those dead things that might be aliens? Jesus H. Christ, so what? What if they are? He canât lock us down here like prisoners. It ainât right and somebodyâs gotta do something about it.â
St. Ours lit another cigarette from the butt of his first, flagrantly ignoring the NO SMOKING
Similar Books
