Tandem of Terror (4 page)

Brent collapsed struggling for breath at
Mark's feet, as Mark opened up on their pursuers with his
Winchester. Mark picked off the closest of the dead as spent
casings flew from his rifle's chamber. The train was gaining speed
and the dead were falling farther and farther behind.

"
Sweet Lord," Brent managed
to blurt out. "That was too close."

Mark laughed propping his weapon against the
car's inner railing. "It's what you get for volunteering for this
job."

"
Maybe," Brent answered,
"But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

Brent got to his feet dusting himself off and
changed the subject. "The dead aren't suppose to be this close to
the border yet. No one knew they'd overrun Bloomington already.
Last time we sent out a recon party, they were two towns over."

"
They're coming. There's no
stopping them. I don't care what anyone says, it's only a matter of
time until they make it to the East. Ain't nothing gonna stop them.
Not even the river."

"
Well, we ain't goin' down
like those cavalry boys did. We'll hold the line. We've got
to."

"
You're lying to yourself
boy. The West belongs to those things now. We can't guard the whole
Mississippi River. Soon enough the dead will be across it and in
the cities too."

"
How can you believe that?"
Brent asked.

"
Simple," Mark answered. "I
believe in God. This is the end of times. It's gotta be. Hell on
Earth and all that comes with it boy. I've made my peace. Hope
you've made your peace with him too."

Suddenly, Mark and Brent were tossed about as
the train's brake began to squeal. They could hear shouting coming
from the front of the train as they desperately fought to hold onto
the car's rails and avoid tumbling off onto the tracks.

"
What the... ?" Mark
screamed as the train stopped.

Mark and Brent hopped off the car, Mark
pausing long enough to grab up his rifle, which by some miracle
hadn't been lost on the tracks, heading for the front of the train
to see what was happening. Several other soldiers from the train's
small contingent were already standing around cursing. A massive
tree blocked the railway. Just by glancing at it, Brent could see
there was no hope of removing it from the tracks before the dead
caught up with them.

Mark noticed the commanding officer, captain
Stephenson, among the men inspecting the tree and motioned for
Brent to join him as he walked towards him.

"
Are we running or
standing?" Mark challenged the younger man with no respect for his
rank. Stephenson whirled on them. "Soldier you better watch your
mouth or you'll be dead before those rotting bastards ever get
here."

"
Yes sir," Mark offered
through grinding teeth. "but you didn't answer my
question."

This was Stephenson's first command behind
the quarantine line. Stephenson was sweating under the pressure
forced with only two choices that were both pretty much suicide.
Finally, he looked Mark in the eye. "We're standin'! I think it's
time we gave the dead back some of the pain and suffering they've
given us." Stephenson yelled at the thirty five men around him on
the train. "Get the Gatling set up on the rear car. Make sure the
gunner is somebody who's used one before. Everybody else, load up
with as much ammo as you can in your pockets and form a defensive,
firing line flanking that car. Let's show those monsters the US
army won't go down easy!"

Everyone took up their positions as extra
guns were loaded and placed to be within easy reach. Mark manned
the Gatling in the center of the line while Brent found himself
missing the company of the gruff and burly old timer as he hunched
on the dirt in a ready firing position his rifle aimed at the
horizon.

The dead came into view. There were hundreds
of them stampeding towards the train and its small cluster of
defenders. "Hold you fire!" Mark shouted. Stephenson shot him a
glare but knew it was an order that needed to be given. "Aim for
their heads!" He added reluctantly giving a nod in Mark's
direction.

As soon as the dead entered firing range, the
Gatling gun started blazing, tearing into the middle of their
ranks. Everyone else tried to pick their shots more carefully and
make sure the ones they were aiming for wouldn't be getting back
up.

Not even the spinning barrels of the Gatling
could slow the dead's charge. They kept racing on, closer, over the
bodies of the fallen. The wave of dead slammed into the soldiers'
line with no mercy. The line broke, half of its number knocked to
the ground under the gnashing teeth of the dead, as soon as the
creatures reached it. A few tried to continue to fight and died
instantly as the monsters overwhelmed them.

Brent watched Mark be yanked off the car from
behind the Gatling by grasping, eager hands. Mark disappeared in
the sea of the dead. Brent turned away from the remains of the
battle and ran. He tossed his empty rifle aside and jerked his Colt
free from the holster on his belt. His feet crunched gravel as he
darted down the length of the train. He reached the fallen tree and
knew there was no way he could jump it. He veered to the right and
took off into the woods surrounding the railway with more than a
dozen of the dead on his tail. Sweat rolled off his face and skin.
In desperation, he hopped onto a tall tree using his momentum to
gain height and started to climb. Cold hands closed on his legs and
ankles as he felt a set of yellow teeth cut through the fabric of
his uniform into the flesh of his thigh. "God Forgive me," Brent
pleaded as he pressed his Colt's barrel to the side of his head and
pulled the trigger. His limp form fell loose from the tree into the
waiting mob below.

The Tomb in the Stars

Eric S. Brown

I don't know why I write this now. It is
unlikely anyone will ever read these words. Being a killer is never
easy for a sane mind, but for those of us who were torn away from
our homes, our families, to have a rifle shoved into our hands, it
is an utter nightmare beyond the scope of understanding.

Nearly half of us either committed suicide or
were shot for treason while we were still at the Alliance training
camps. No one here except for the veterans and officers even want
to fight this war. The whole of Earth thinks it is wrong, but the
government does not care.

Us newbies who managed to survive the camps
clung to each other forming a deep comradeship, only to have that
taken from us as well as the training ended and we were shipped off
to our various units.

On the black last day at the camps, I bid
farewell to those who had shared my suffering and was marched
abroad a shuttle leaving for the front. I grasp my orders tightly
in my hands, wishing I could rip them to shreds and throw them into
the cool spring breeze which swept over the landing platform. As I
boarded the shuttle, I noticed an odd painting upon its hull. You
see, all Alliance squads are given a nickname to add to their
morale and this painting represented my new squad. It showed a dog
laying on the ground. Its skull split open with brain matter oozing
out onto the green grass around it. Underneath the painting, I read
the words, "The Dog Kill Squad". This did nothing to alleviate my
fears and I doubted I would ever see my beautiful wife again.

I guess like everyone else, I had thought
myself immune to the draft. I had been a class one citizen of the
Alliance. I was famous and wealthy, the hot rising holo-vid writer
of my generation. When the papers arrived on my doorstep, I had
protested and went to the head of the studio I worked for. I was
presently under contract with them to write their new "War" series
of films and prayed that they would pull the necessary strings to
gain my freedom but they did not.

As I climbed aboard the shuttle, I longed for
a means to write of my fear and my pain, immortalize it so the
world could see it and understand, but we were allowed no personal
possessions. I carried only my assignment orders, my rifle, and a
bit of field survival equipment issued to me. The seat I had chosen
allowed me to watch as the shuttle lifted itself from the ground
and broke through the clouds into the eternal darkness of space. I
watched the Earth sink into the distance behind us as the shuttle
approached the cold storage ship that would haul my squad the rest
of the way to the front lines on the outer rim of Alliance space.
Even now, Alkar warriors swarmed over the outer colonies, killing
every one in their path.

They marched me onto the storage ship and
stripped me of my gear and clothes, shoving me into a tank much
like a meat locker. Gas swirled into the hollow metal chamber
around me as I screamed. Then the darkness came to my own eyes as
they froze solid.

I awoke later inside the chamber which passed
for a cyro-bed and knew instantly that something had gone wrong.
The hatch of the locker opened spilling me onto the floor. I lay
there shivering, barely able to see as my body rejected being
forced back into the world of the living. Spasms over took me and I
wretched and gagged violently.

Red emergency lights flickered through out
the room. A static filled voice screamed over the transport's
internal comm. system.

"
All personnel, this is not
a drill. Repeat this is not a drill. We have been intercepted by a
fleet of Alkar raiders. This transport is being boarded. All
personnel to battlestations!"

I looked around the storage room to see how
the other members of my squad were reacting, to realize in horror,
that I was alone. The corpses of my fellow soldiers floated inside
their vats. Only mine had opened. I shuddered at the thought of how
they must have died, drowning in their own fluids and waste.

My training overrode reason as I pulled
myself to my feet, slipping on the wet metal floor and rushed over
to the area where our gear was kept. I dressed in a blur, grabbing
up my rifle and slung it onto my shoulder. I opened the compartment
next to my own and picked up a second rifle as well. No other
member of my squad would be needing it now.

My heart thundered in my chest as I reached
the room's main door. My mind struggling to recall the code to open
it. Then I remembered, the door could only be opened from the
outside. The Alliance trusted its own soldiers little more than it
did the Alkar. If newbies were allowed access to the ship
unsupervised, the Alliance feared they might mutiny and turn the
transport around for home.

In my rage, I hurled myself against the blast
door again and again, until my anger subsided and I collapsed to
the floor battered and bruised. The internal comm. erupted with
life again, the frantic voice of an officer pleading for help
echoed inside the chamber, as I sat helplessly. Then the comm. went
dead as the whole ship shook violently. I imagined the hull
breaches leaking air into the void as Alkar beam weapons sliced
into the vessel around me.

The storage room however remained so far
untouched by the horrors occurring outside. I thought of using my
rifle to cut my way free but discarded the notion quickly as I
remembered rooms such as this were magnetically sealed.

I pressed my ear to the door and listened. I
could hear the sounds of combat outside. Officers screaming as they
cut down by the Alkar. Then there was only silence.

My fear gave way to exhaustion as time crept
by and I slept with head propped awkwardly against the wall. This
time when I awoke, my world was dark and cold. The red flicker of
the lights were gone. I imagined the transport floating powerlessly
among the stars. Death would come with the cold if I did not perish
from lack of air first.

I dug through the equipment lockers until I
found my squad's breathing units. They were designed for surface
use in hostile environments and not meant to last long. I estimated
that if I used every member of the squad's gear, that I may have
enough air for two weeks at most.

One of the members of the squad had been
assigned as an engineer and in his gear I found a small laser
welder. I used it to superheat areas of the hull in the room and
stood beside the glowing wall shivering and watching my own breath
drift out of the breather-unit's filters into the darkness around
me. My only hope was that someone, human or Alkar would find this
chamber and open it to investigate.

I grew with each passing day to feel more
betrayed by my world and more and more helpless. I missed my wife
and longed for her embrace but even more I missed my art and the
feel of my old fashioned key board beneath my fingers. I knew I had
to find to a way to write all of this down, even if just for
myself, and my stomach rumbled with hunger. I couldn't remember the
last time I ate.

Then a divine inspiration came upon me. I
found a way to continue my writing for the reminder of my days. It
is not a pleasant way and the first time I did it was the hardest.
His name had been Nathan Sorel according to the label on his tank
and his dog-tags. I am sure he did not mind as my knife slipped
into his skin and I drained his blood in my helmet. It was not ink,
but it would do. So I hope you will forgive any messiness in these
words. I have done the best I could with what was available and
least now my art can continue until my final breath. When you find
me, please take my body home to Earth.

Scritch, Scritch

John Grover

Belcher House

Ever since she could remember, Lisa Moore
wanted to live in Belcher house. When she was a little girl she'd
walk by it on her way to the library and stop to stare at it. She
loved it from the first time she set eyes on it.