The Thing (26 page)

Macready had put the dynamite and flare on the floor. He charged the table with one of the blowtorches, pushing everyone else aside.

"Get out of the way!"

A stream of fire unloaded on the thing dancing on the infirmary table. The body seemed unable to dodge, whether because it was still incomplete or because the repeated charges from the fibrillator had inhibited its abilities. Macready couldn't tell—not that he gave a damn. The fire spread to the table, which burned merrily.

Belching and hissing, the barely recognizable remnants of Norris's body tumbled to the floor. Macready backed off a step, continued to play the nozzle of the blowtorch across it.

Somehow the flaming, indistinct mass of protoplasm managed to straighten up. It towered over him for a moment, then turned and staggered a couple of feet toward the doorway on things that weren't legs. A black and yellow ooze exploded through the shredded trousers and squirted all over the floor. Macready methodically turned the fire on it.

The monstrosity staggered backward and collapsed onto the fibrillator. It lay there, writhing with horrid, alien life, and burning furiously.

The men watched as it melted into a molten, shapeless mass of burning protoplasm. It smoked intensely. Macready was reminded of a magnesium flare, or the white phosphorus AP bombs the military occasionally used back in 'Nam.

Fire extinguishers were pulled from their holders and brought into play. The fibrillator was a wreck, scorched and blackened, the plastic plates over its readouts melted away. The infirmary table wasn't in much better shape.

While they worked they had to avoid smoking puddles of black goo that still burned on the floor, twitching agitatedly in their tiny agony. Eventually they died, too, their tiny mews fading away into silence.

All eyes traveled to Macready, who'd backed away and was once more standing with the box of dynamite. The flare had finally burnt itself out, but he held the torch ready. That would be slower, but not slow enough.

"Everybody into the rec room," he told them, breaking the stunned silence. "Nobody steps out of anybody else's sight, got that? I've got an idea."

They shuffled out of the room in a body, occasionally turning for a glance back at the smoking surgical table. No one said anything or objected to Macready's order. Their initial anger at the pilot had been replaced by a dull terror that Norris's unmasking did nothing to alleviate.

Macready waited until he was certain that everyone who'd been in the infirmary had moved into the rec room. Then he edged in behind them, always keeping his back against a wall. Putting down the box of dynamite, he used his free hand to draw Garry's Magnum from a jacket pocket.

The rest of the crew milled around on the other side of the room and watched him. He set the dynamite on one of the card tables where everyone could see it clearly.

"What you got in mind, Macready?" Clark wondered aloud. "It better be good."

"Oh, it's nothing elaborate." The pilot grinned at him. "Just a little test I've thought up. Sometimes experience can be more enlightening than a Ph.D."

"What the hell are you raving about, Macready?" Copper muttered disconsolately.

"You'll see, Doc, just like everybody else." He carefully adjusted the aperture of the torch he was holding, setting it for a short, intense throw.

"What kind of test?" Palmer asked. He was subdued after the episode in the infirmary. A kind of dull despair had settled over the men. It wasn't quite hopelessness. Net yet. It was more of a feeling that they'd finally lost all control over their chances for survival, that their destiny lay in the hands of something not human.

Only Macready was still defiant and unresigned. Given their present opinion of him, that only left the others feeling more discouraged than ever.

"What kind of test?" he repeated grimly. "I'm sure some of you already know."

There was plenty of rope in the room, cut segments of varying length plus the rest of the large spool they'd been pared from. The rope had been brought in and used to bind Clark, Garry, and Copper. Macready kicked it toward his reluctant assistant. It rolled to a halt at the younger man's feet.

"Palmer, you and Copper tie everyone else down. Real tight. I'll be watching you."

"What for?" Childs had considered taking a leap at the pilot, but the proximity of dynamite and blowtorch restrained him. Someone was going to have to try something pretty soon, though. No telling what Macready was up to.

"For your health," the pilot told him. He didn't sound sarcastic, either.

Garry looked at the others. "Let's rush him. He's not going to blow us up."

"Damned if I won't," Macready said brightly.

Childs took a step forward. "You ain't tying me up."

"Then I'll have to kill you."

Childs glared evenly back at the other man, nodding curtly. "Then kill me."

Macready raised the muzzle of the .44 until it was pointing straight at Childs's forehead. "I mean it." The click of the hammer going back was loud in the room.

"I guess you do," said Childs quietly.

The pilot hesitated, his finger tense on the trigger. There was movement out of the corner of his eye. An instant in which his brain registered several events simultaneously.

Clark—light on metal—scalpel—coming
. . .

He spun and fired twice in rapid succession. The force of the powerful Magnum sent the dog handler spinning backward. He clutched at himself, bounced off a nearby chair, and collapsed to the floor.

Almost as quickly Macready had the gun turned on the rest. The torch hovered dangerously over the dynamite.

"Don't," he warned them. A couple of the men had taken steps toward him. "Palmer, get to work."

The assistant pilot dazedly took up the rope and after a disbelieving glance at his boss began securing the others to couches and chairs. It was slow going and he apologized to each of them in turn as he drew the knots tight. Copper worked in silence.

"Finished," both men finally announced.

"Not quite." Macready gestured with the Magnum. "Tie up Copper, and then Clark."

Palmer frowned bemusedly as he looked down at the dog handler. Clark lay where he'd fallen, bleeding and unmoving. "What for? He's dead."

Macready shook his head. "You forget fast, don't you, Palmer? Norris looked pretty dead himself. Bullets don't kill these things, they just inconvenience 'em. Tie him up."

When that final gruesome task was completed he motioned Palmer over to the doorway and smiled at the others. "Don't anybody try anything. I'll be right back. In much less than an hour," he added significantly.

The two men were gone only a few minutes. The returning Palmer put another case of dynamite on the table, then backed away from Macready and awaited further orders.

"Okay, now untie the doc." Palmer complied. The doctor stood, rubbing his wrists where the rope had begun to cut "Sorry, Doc. I
think
you're okay. You blew Norris's cover, made the thing reveal itself. I don't think you'd have used that fibrillator if you were one of them. But I can't be a hundred percent certain. Not yet."

Copper smiled wanly at him, walked over and peered curiously into the small box the pilot had put down next to the two cases of explosive.

As he watched, Macready removed a Bunsen burner from the box and attached its long rubber tubing to a gas outlet. He used the blowtorch to light the burner. Sanders closed his eyes when the torch came alive. It was still close to the dynamite. Macready seemed not to care.

Putting down the Magnum he used a pocket knife to cut the multiplug fixture off the end of an extension cord. Then he stripped the insulation back to expose the wire. This was done while still keeping the torch under one arm and a careful eye on the rest of them. Finally he instructed Copper to tie up Palmer.

"We should have jumped his ass." Childs was angry at his own timidity.

"Maybe," muttered Sanders. "Too late now."

Macready finished his work. The Bunsen burner hissed steadily.

"What're you up to, Mac?" Palmer looked uncomfortable. Probably the ropes were hurting him.

"We're going to draw a little bit of everybody's blood," the pilot informed him.

Nauls let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right. What are you going to do, drink it?"

Macready ignored him. "Watching what happened to Norris back in there," he gestured toward the infirmary, "plus what I remember from the night out on the ice when one of these things killed Bennings gave me the idea that maybe every part of these bastards is a whole. Every piece is self-sufficient and can act independently if the need arises. An animal unto itself.

"When a man bleeds it's just fluid loss, but blood from one of these things doesn't just lie dormant. Remember what Blair said about each cell being taken over independently? Each one becomes a newly activated individual life form, with the usual built-in desire to protect itself from harm.

"Remember those little pieces of Norris, how they squirmed around and gave off that mewling noise? When attacked, it looks like even a fragment of one of these things will try to survive as best it's able. Even a sample of its blood.

"Of course, there's no higher nervous system, no brain to suppress a natural instinct like that if it's in the best interests of the larger whole to do so. The cells have to act instinctively instead of intelligently. Protect themselves from freezing, say. Or from incineration. The kind that might be caused by a hot needle, for instance." He turned to face the doctor.

"Copper, you do the honors."

"You said you thought I was safe because of what had happened in the infirmary," Copper said.

Macready nodded affirmatively. "I said that I
think
you are. I want to be sure."

Copper noted that the nozzle of the blowtorch had been focused on his midsection ever since he'd tied up Palmer, but he chose not to say anything about it. Obviously Macready had no intention of trusting him until he'd run his little test. There was no point in arguing with him.

"All right, I'll do as you ask, Mac." He picked up the scalpel Clark had dropped and moved over to a chair.

"Sorry, Sanders. I've got no choice."

"That's okay, Doc." The radio operator grimaced as Copper pressed gently against one bound finger. Blood beaded up on the skin and dropped into the petri dish the doctor held beneath the cut. The others stared.

"Now the rest," Macready said impatiently. The box he'd carried the Bunsen burner in also contained a dish for everyone in the room.

Copper moved among them, drawing a small quantity of blood from each and returning the dishes to the table where he labeled each with a marking pen.

He finished with Garry, marked the dish and wiped the blade off on a now red-streaked cloth. "That's the last of them."

"Not quite," Macready said, sliding a fresh dish toward the doctor. "Now you."

Copper obligingly nicked his thumb, and watched as the blood dribbled into the glass.

"Slide it back here," Macready directed him. The doctor did as ordered. "Now step back. Way back, over there with the others."

Copper complied. Sweat was beginning to collect on his forehead. He nearly tripped over Childs's feet.

"And lastly, yours truly." Macready used the scalpel on his own thumb, collected the blood in a last dish. Then he put the bare copper wire protruding from the stripped end of the extension cord into the flame from the Bunsen burner.

The men watched intently as the wire began to glow. Macready held it steady in the bluest part of the flame, keeping the torch aimed at the doctor. Both of them were perspiring freely now.

When it was ready the pilot took the wire out of the flame and brought it toward the nearest plate, the one containing the sample of Copper's blood. His eyes were fixed on the staring doctor and a finger was tense on the trigger of the blowtorch.

A soft hiss rose from the petri dish. Macready reheated the wire and repeated the experiment. Again the hissing, and that was all. The blood in the dish had reacted normally. Both men let out a sigh of relief.

"I guess you're okay, Doc."

Copper's relief was palpable and his reply was only slightly facetious. "Thank you." He was trembling.

"Like I said," Macready reiterated, "I didn't think you'd have used that current on Norris's body if you were one of them." He favored the older man with a weak smile. "It's nice to know for sure again that somebody's nothing more than they're supposed to be.

"Here. Give me a hand." He handed over the torch. "Watch them. And don't forget the dynamite."

Copper nodded, resolutely training the unfamiliar instrument on the bound men while Macready moved his own dish to the edge of the table where everyone could see it clearly.

"Now I'll show you all what I already know and what you can't seem to believe." He heated the wire and stuck the tip into his blood. The same harmless hissing that had risen from Copper's dish now rose from his own. As with Copper, he repeated the action. Same result.

Childs turned away, unable to meet the pilot's gaze. "Doesn't mean anything. Load of bullshit."

"Yeah? We'll see." He studied the dishes, chose another. "Let's try Clark." He heated the wire again, placed it in the handler's dish. More hissing . . . and nothing else.

Childs glanced up at him. "So according to your figuring, that means Clark was human, right?" Macready nodded slowly. "So that makes you a murderer."

Macready ignored him, looked over the group. "Palmer now." He pulled out the proper dish and put the wire into the steady flame from the burner.

Garry was shifting uncomfortably on the couch. His arms were cramping. "Pure nonsense, like Childs says. This won't prove a damn thing."

"That's just what it's supposed to prove." Macready gave the station manager a nasty grin. "I thought you'd feel that way, Garry. You were the only one who could have gotten at the blood in the infirmary refrigerator." He put the wire into Palmer's dish. "We'll do you last."

A horrible screech filled the room, sharp and piercing . . . and unexpected.