The Thing (23 page)

The mechanic whirled and glared down at Palmer. The pilot had been mumbling to himself and had fallen a few steps behind his companion.

The abruptness of Childs's move brought Palmer to a startled halt. "What . . ."

"Don't walk behind me."

"Walk behind . . .?" Realization dawned. Normally Palmer could let his mind drift langorously, but not now. This wasn't the time for idle introspection. "Oh yeah . . . right."

He moved up until he was standing next to the opposite wall, across from the mechanic. "This better?"

"Much better," Childs agreed. He moved past the divider and into the next section of corridor. They continued that way, neither man advancing ahead of or falling far behind his partner. The jerky, awkward mutual lockstep did nothing to lessen the tension between them.

The wind howled around the walls of the shack as Nauls and Macready stopped in front of the door. The pilot glanced around the left side of the building, then the right. None of the boards covering the windows appeared to have been disturbed.

"Let's keep it quiet," Nauls urged him. "Maybe the thing's walking around out here, listening for—"

Macready shook his head and spoke brusquely. "It's got more sense than that, and if it didn't you couldn't hear it anyway. Not over this wind."

Nauls licked his lips, cursing himself when a crust of ice immediately formed over them. He eyed the heavy boards sealing the shed door. "So what do we do? Go on in?"

"Not unless we have to."

The little port set in the door was completely clouded over. Macready squinted at it while Nauls danced behind him, as much from nervousness as a desire to keep warm.

"See anything?"

Macready stared a moment longer, then finally shook his head. "Too steamed up. The side windows should be clearer. Come on."

Huddled close to the wall they moved around the left side. The force of the wind abated slightly in the lee of the shed.

The gap between two of the one-by-fours was also fogged up, but not as badly as the glass in the doorway. Macready peered inside.

Blair was seated at the central table, barely visible in the pale glow from the single weak bulb dangling overhead. He was spooning food out of a can. A hangman's noose hung stark and ready from one of the ceiling beams.

Macready put his mouth close to the glass, careful not to let his lips come in contact with it. "Hey, Blair!"

The biologist jumped up, knocking over his chair and spilling the can of food. His agitated expression belied his seeming serenity. He searched wildly for the source of the shout before his gaze came to rest on the side window.

"Mac, is that you?"

"Yeah. Me and Nauls. Take it easy, Blair." At this reassurance the biologist appeared to relax slightly. He walked over to the window and stared out at the pilot. His eyes were red and lined, his hair unkempt and his clothing disheveled. Macready thought he looked terrible.

"What d'you want, Mac?"

"Has Fuchs been out here?" Macready studied the other man closely, trying to determine if he was likely to go on another mad binge. He couldn't decide, even wished Copper were present. But Copper was under suspicion.

"I've changed my mind," he told Macready. "I'd . . . I'd like to come back inside. I don't want to stay out here anymore. I hear funny things here."

I'll bet you do, thought Macready silently. The trouble is you were hearing them before you were put out here.

"I asked if you'd seen Fuchs"

Blair made an effort and forced himself to consider Macready's question "Fuchs? No, it's not Fuchs You must let me back in. I won't harm anyone. I promise. You have all the guns hidden away by now, I'm sure. I . . . I cant do any more damage to anything"

"We'll see about it, Blair," Macready turned from the window. "Got a couple of other things to check out first." Nauls followed the pilot away from the shed.

Blair's panicky voice followed them. "I promise! I'm much better now. I'll be good. I'm all right. Don't leave me here. Mac, don't leave me out here . . .!" The wind swallowed the rest of his screams as Macready and Nauls moved a little faster.

Norris was tired. The past couple of days had been rough. He wasn't as young as most of the guys. Nor as healthy. He kept his attention split between the sedated trio slumped on the couch and the several entrances to the recreation room. A dull ache throbbed in his chest. He rubbed his sternum reflexively, wincing.

"I'm getting worried about you," Copper said thickly from the couch. "You ought to have an EKG."

Norris self-consciously moved his hand away from his chest and tried to sound unconcerned. "Let's not worry about anything else just now."

The doctor yawned, not entirely the result of the sedation. He was exhausted too. "Okay. After we get this mess squared away, then. First thing."

Norris nodded agreeably. Something made a noise outside the kitchen-end doorway and he jerked sharply in its direction. It came again, faint and mechanical. Relay switching over, he decided, relaxing again.

He looked back at the doctor and murmured, "After all this mess . . ."

The wind outside was no longer merely strong, it had turned decidedly vicious. Macready and Nauls had to use the guide ropes to drag themselves along as they made agonizingly slow progress toward the pilot's shed. The gentle slope seemed like a sixty-degree climb.

They used both flashlight and flares now. The only sign of life was provided by the dull orange glow of the exterior lights impotently trying to penetrate the blowing snow.

A violent gust knocked Macready off his feet. He hung onto the rope with both hands as his legs went out from under him. His boots kicked at the snow. He was on his back, half on the boardwalk and half lying on white oblivion. The wind tore at him, trying to loosen his grip.

Nauls stopped as the pilot's flashlight and flare were blown toward him. He dove for the light, gripping the rope with his other hand, and managed to catch it before the wind carried it out of sight.

Macready fought to get back on his feet. He was painfully aware of his vulnerability, lying there on his back against the slippery ice. Nauls was coming toward him, pulling himself along the ropes. The pilot stared through battered goggles at the younger man, the cook a surreal vision in snow-caked parka and boots.

Then Nauls bent and handed over the flashlight. Trying not to show his relief, Macready finally managed to pull himself upright again.

"Thanks," he shouted above the wind. Nauls just nodded. Together they resumed their hike toward the shed.

Normally the electric cables ran in neat, parallel lines along the lower kitchen wall like so many silver pythons. Now they were twisted and torn as if a small bomb had gone off in their midst. Naked copper gleamed in the fluorescent light.

Childs and Palmer were bent over them, examining the damage.

"Auxiliary power line," Childs muttered angrily as he poked at a particular cable. "That's why the backup never came on, or the storage batteries either."

"Auxiliary cables," Palmer repeated. He leaned closer, feeling betrayed. "Been cut by somebody."

"Cut, bullshit." Childs staightened and stared around the deserted kitchen. He missed the familiar cooking smells and the friendly cacophony of Nauls's stereo. "Been pulled apart."

"Can we fix them?"

"Probably. Cut off the torn ends and put in clean splices. If we get the time to." He turned to leave. "Come on. I said the reserve batteries were probably all right. I want to make sure." They headed for Supply.

In spite of the intensifying gale Macready and Nauls managed to reach the top of the little hill. The shed provided some protection from the growing storm. It was very dark. The feeble light from the main compound was completely obliterated by blowing snow.

Macready gestured and Nauls took up a ready stance on the far side of the doorway. Reaching out with a gloved hand the pilot flipped up the heavy latch. Then he took a deep breath, shoved the door open and stepped inside, holding a burning flare in front of him.

The first thing be did was trip the light switch just inside the door, but no friendly light flared from the overhead fixture. His gaze turned upward.

There was no light fixture. It was gone, along with most of the roof. A few bent corners showed where the weighted metal had been ripped back.

Aghast, he strode into his room. The wind was nearly as strong inside as out front, now that the roof was gone. Whether from the battering it had already taken from the wind or from something else, the interior was a snow-swept wreck.

He became aware that Nauls was shouting at him. "Where's the roof?" The cook had been standing in the doorway, staring. Now he walked in and turned in a slow circle as he gazed skyward. "This storm do that?"

Macready shook his bead. Before they'd forced the door he'd been frightened. Now he was getting angry.

"Possible but not likely," he told his companion. "Must have weighed a ton and a half. I had it weighted against hundred and fifty mile per hour winds. This little blow we're having isn't anywhere near that strong."

They quietly inspected the ruin that had been Macready's home away from home. The oversize chess set was a cracked chunk of red and black plastic. It lay in a corner where it had been thrown. A few of the pieces were visible above the accumulated snow. They lay scattered all over the floor, a pawn here, a broken king there.

Nauls kicked over a chair. As he did so something pale and bloated bounded from beneath. He let out a half scream and instinctively thrust his flare at it.

It caught the inflatable lady in the midsection. There was a sharp report. Macready whirled at the gunshot-like report while Nauls tripped and fell to the floor.

Caught by the gusting wind, the deflated latex soared through the missing roof and disappeared into the night.

"Shit," Macready muttered, though whether because of the loss of his companion or the false alarm Nauls couldn't tell. The cook picked himself off the floor, brushing snow from his rumpled parka.

"Goddamn women," he growled darkly. "Never could tell what they were going to do."

It was cold in the side corridor. The generator was still struggling to replace the heat lost during its temporary shutdown.

Palmer stood by as Childs methodically undid the locks sealing the plant room. It took time. The pilot didn't enjoy waiting. He would greatly have preferred to wait back in the rec room. But orders were orders. At least Mac hadn't forced him to go with the jittery Sanders.

Eventually Childs turned the last dial and pulled the heavy door aside. An unexpected gust of wind-driven snow made the two surprised men step backward. Childs put his head down and moved into it, wedging his body against the doorjamb. Palmer hung close to him.

"My babies," the mechanic murmured, ignoring the cold and the wind as he entered the modified storage closet.

The carefully machined skylight had been smashed. Glass littered the floor, some still attached to the hand-welded metal frames. The plants were dead. Their crowns touched the floor, unable to stand straight under the weight of accumulated ice.

Palmer's eyes widened as he took in first the gap in the ceiling, then the forest of little green stalagmites. "Somebody broke in," he whispered fearfully, "or out."

Childs didn't seem to hear. "Now who'd go and do a thing like this?" A whole year's off-time cultivation, careful work with the makeshift hydroponics, all shot to hell. He took a step farther into the room.

Fear giving him necessary strength, Palmer reached in and quickly yanked the mechanic back.

"Childs . . . no!"

The bigger man turned on him. "Let go of me, man, before I . . ." He raised a threatening fist.

"No, no." Palmer let go of Childs's shirt and backed off, pleading with him. "Don't stay in there." His gaze went to the hole in the roof. "Don't get near the plants. They look like they're frozen, but we can't be sure. The plants, they're alive. Those things can imitate anything living, remember? Any kind of organic construction."

Childs hesitated, reflexively moved his feet away from the nearest growth. "What's it going to do, being a plant? Grow up my leg?"

"I don't know, but we can't take any chances." Palmer was carrying one of the portable torches Childs and Macready had fashioned. Now he was checking the flow valve as he pointed it toward the storage room.

"We got to burn 'em."

Childs gaze narrowed. "Now hold on just a minute, you dumb—" He took a step toward the pilot.

Palmer dodged around him and activated the torch. A narrow trail of fire sprayed past the mechanic. Ice melted instantly and the plants beneath ignited, burning like thin green candles. A pungent smoke drifted out into the hallway.

Childs gave Palmer a shove, and started dancing on the flames in a frantic attempt to put the fire out.

"You stupid, ignorant son of a—"

Palmer screamed. He'd started to turn away and his gaze had fallen on the door blocking the corridor. The door had swung lazily inward on its hinges, and now stood half closed. Childs stopped stomping and stared past the pilot.

Staring at them from the back of the door was the frozen body of Fuchs. An axe was imbedded in his chest, pinning him to the wood. His eyes were still open. Together with the expression on his face, they effectively mirrored whatever had killed him.

Palmer was still screaming.

Norris heard it and jumped up from his seat in the recreation room. Common sense fought with orders. He looked at the couch. All three of his charges were still tightly bound and sleeping off their drug-induced stupor.

Still, Macready had ordered him not to leave the room. He settled for throwing the alarm.

Sanders had arrived in the storage area after finishing up outside. Now he gazed in fascination at the corpse of the young biologist as the siren continued to wail around them.

He put both hands on the axe and tried to wrench it out. It wouldn't shift, let alone break free. The sharp head was completely buried in Fuchs's chest and into the door beyond.

The radio operator gave up. Stepping back he eyed Childs's hulking frame and said pointedly, "Whoever put this through him is one bad-ass and strong mother."