Hell's Gate(43)

More silence . . . then a sniffle.

“I asked you, buddy, what’s your name?”

“Scott,” came a reply, barely a whisper. “Ned.” Then the man mumbled his rank and serial number.

Silence, then more sobs. Soft. Heart-wrenching.

MacCready recognized the name. Lieutenant Scott was one of the Rangers Hendry had sent in.

MacCready tried to sit up and just before he fell back onto his side he was able to see in the dim light that except for Scott’s cell, the other enclosures appeared to be empty.

What happened to the rest of the Rangers? Dead?

The scientist exhaled a long breath, collecting his thoughts. “It’s gonna be all right, Scott. We’re gettin’ you out of this place.”

Nothing.

“Did you hear me? I said we’re gonna get out of here.”

“Na-ah,” came the singsong response. “You’re just one of the new shipment of Maruta.”

Where have I heard that word before? MacCready thought. “Maruta. And what’s that mean, Lieutenant?”

The man ignored him, seeming to take a sudden interest in something outside his cell. “Uh-oh, no more doggie on the ceiling.”

MacCready struggled into a sitting position. “Lieutenant, that word—maruta—what’s it mean?”

The Ranger responded with a mirthless laugh. “Pally, it means you are f*cked.”

MacCready winced. Yes, and that’s really helpful.

Then, as if to assure MacCready that, indeed, things could get worse, Lieutenant Ned Scott began to sing loudly:

“I’m maruta, you’re maruta, he’s maruta, too! We’re logs, we’re logs, we’re laboratory frogs!”

“Come on, MacFeelie, you know the words,” Scott called, cheerfully. Then he followed up with a high-pitched giggle. “If not . . . you’ll know them soo-oon.”

MacCready rolled back onto his side and closed his eyes—hoping for an unconsciousness that refused to come—the madman’s song repeating over and over again.





CHAPTER 14





Children of Blood


And in many places there are bats of such bigness [encountered by those who have followed Columbus to the New World tropics—bats, like large birds]. These bats have often times assaulted men in the night in their sleep, and so bitten them with their venomous teeth, that they have been thereby almost driven to madness, in so much that they have been compelled to flee from such places, as from ravenous Harpies.

—PIETRO MARTYR D’ANGHIERA, 1525 (TRANSCRIBED BY RICHARD EDEN)

Nostromo Base

January 27, 1944

Twenty minutes before dawn

Tough luck, eh?” the corporal said.

“How is that?” Maurice Voorhees replied, looking outward as he leaned against the bulwark railing of the I-400 conning tower. The fog was even thicker at dawn and glancing down, he could barely see the Nostromo’s deck.

“I mean the colonel, doubling up the sentries. And with you being a rocket scientist, the doubling up is how you got enlisted for this duty, right?”

Voorhees turned toward the lanky twenty-two-year-old. “Yes, Corporal Kessler, that is how I got enlisted.”

“Can’t see a thing in this soup,” Kessler said, waving an arm through the mist. “I’m going down to check the stern.”

“But we’re supposed to stay—”

“We’re supposed to be protecting the boat,” the corporal said. “How can you protect what you can’t see?”

Voorhees remained at the railing, watching as the man slung his MP-43 and began to lower himself down a set of slippery metal rungs.

Then the corporal paused. “Are you coming, Dr. Voorhees?” he said in a hushed voice, his body language running in opposition to the unexpected burst of bravado.

Voorhees hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He caught just a hint of relief on the corporal’s face before it disappeared below the conning tower deck.

A minute later, they had almost made their way to the end of the submarine’s deserted and silent afterdeck. Even the parrots that flew squawking into the valley early each morning seemed to be sleeping late today.

“This place is not what I thought it would be,” Kessler whispered. “I was wishing for coconuts and topless women.”

Voorhees said nothing, hoping the man would take the hint.

“Sorry if I offend you, Doctor. I think you must have a girlfriend back home?”

“Corporal Kessler, if this is your idea of small talk I’d rather not hear it.”

“Apologies. I didn’t mean—I mean, it’s this place. It’s starting to make stories we hear about the Russian Front look like—” Kessler stopped short and his hand went up. His full attention had focused instantly on something up ahead, along the deck. He squinted, trying to get a better look through the fog that hid the tail and aftmost section of the boat.

Voorhees could see something, too, just barely: small cloaked figures, three of them.

“Hey there,” Kessler called. “What are you doing?”

There was a flash of movement and the figures, which appeared to be hunched over, drew back into the fog. Their movement was accompanied by a faint clicking sound.

Voorhees was surprised by their speed and even more so by their agility. Rather than rising up before running, the figures stayed low and scrabbled away. Like crabs on a beach.