Chapter 17 #2
Movement caught his attention. The FUD was back. Its pincers clacking agitatedly as it stormed toward him. The ground shook under its weight as it ran. Black spots danced in front of Gabriel’s eyes.
When the FUD was only a step away, he let go, rolling off the Drone taking the tarp with him.
It bobbed up, spinning free for a moment before the FUD crashed into it.
The Drone got caught in the FUD’s front legs, tripping the big quadruped.
It slammed face-first into the ground, both of them rolling into a heap against the cement retaining wall.
Gabriel’s chest was screaming, but he pushed himself up to his hands and knees. He blinked rapidly, reaching for his gun. The Drone was smashed under the FUD. Crushed like Humpty Dumpty.
But the FUD was pushing itself to its feet. Metal crunched under its claws as it righted itself, kicking bits of the Drone away. Its head swayed, pincers silent. Gabriel wondered if it was out before those red eyes locked onto him.
Fuck.
The FUD’s pincers clacked once before it was speared back against the wall. Metal shrieked as the forklift pierced through the FUD’s ribcage and crashed back into the retaining wall. The FUD thrashed, legs uselessly kicking the air.
“Yeah!” Judd screamed from the driver’s seat. “Happy Fourth of July, bitch!”
Gabriel wheezed as he got to his feet. The FUD was slowing down, the red of its eyes dimming. Thick, viscous goo, the color of motor oil dribbled onto the ground under the dying FUD.
He squinted over at Judd. “It’s March.”
Judd hopped off the forklift. “Not in my heart, Commander.”
Gabriel picked up his gun and limped back toward Tommy.
God, he wanted a drink.
Blake’s ears were ringing. He gasped, rolling onto his back. It was difficult to open his eyes against the wash of air from the rotors. Cement crunched under his skull as he wiggled his toes, just to see if he could.
“Move, Medic,” Phin snapped, getting up to one knee so he could scan the rooftop.
Coughing, Blake checked the syringes before getting to his knees. His arms felt like jelly. How far had they fallen? Why wasn’t he broken? He looked Phin over—his right sleeve was shredded, skin stinging red from road rash.
Phin must have protected him with his body.
He didn’t have a chance to thank him. The big man was up, moving across the roof, gun first. Blake wobbled after him, arms out for balance.
The building was commercial with a flat roof, an ugly tableau of industrialization with its AC units and pipes poking out.
Blake threw himself over a ventilation shaft, trying to keep pace.
His ears were ringing—whether from being dropped fifteen feet onto concrete or the helicopter ride, he wasn’t sure.
They hurt, too. His head felt full of cotton, and his joints were sluggish, like there was a significant lag between brain and body.
Swallowing the dirt in his mouth, he balanced against the wall around the edge of the building, using it to keep from falling on his ass.
Across the alley was Queen Dolly’s building. It was red-bricked, older, softer around the edges. Worn from time. Most of the windows were broken, shards of glass glinting in the sun like teeth in a gaping maw. Phin directed his attention to the fire escape.
“I’ll go first. You follow quickly. The metal will be loud, so we won’t have much time to get up to the roof. Draw your weapon, stay behind me, and for the love of God do not shoot me.”
“Stop pushing me out of things, and I might not be so tempted.”
Phin ignored him.
He took a moment to clear the area, using the sight on his gun to look up at the Queen’s roof.
They couldn’t see much from where they were crouched.
Her building was only two stories taller, but the junk they’d ringed around the roof made it impossible.
It was actually kind of impressive how stable the wall was.
Blake was pretty sure he saw a VW Bug wedged in with a vacuum and a bookshelf.
Slinging his gun over his shoulder, Phin stepped up onto the wall. He looked big most days, but the idea of such a big guy throwing himself down and over made Blake nervous. The fire escape was rusty. Blake had worked with firefighters. He knew damn well how poorly maintained those things were.
“Are you s—”
Phin’s thick thighs flexed, and with a look on his face that might have been mortal fear or constipation, he pushed off.
Despite his size, he didn’t plummet, and it was surprisingly graceful.
He arced just past the fire escape guard rail and landed with a clatter.
Forward momentum had him slamming into the wall, but he caught himself with a soft oof.
Blake tensed. It had been louder than they thought, metal slamming against the brick wall. Something clanged. But even as Phin whipped his gun around, the alley was silent. The soldier nodded to Blake.
Blake’s hands were clammy as he swung a leg over the wall.
He told himself not to look down, but he’d always been questionable at self-preservation, and he peered down into the littered alley.
Bits and bobs of things had fallen from the makeshift wall, mingling with the garbage and human remains in the alley.
There were three people. From this height, Blake couldn’t see much besides skulls and a jumble of decomposed bones. A rat was gnawing on a femur. Blake felt sick.
Jerking his head up, he narrowed in on Phin’s eyes.
Pretended they were different. Phin wasn’t Phin.
He was Gabriel. His hazel eyes would probably be brown against the brick of the building, glowing when the sun hit them.
He would extend a hand and tell Blake to jump.
Not coaxing like he was talking to a civilian, or a barked order like a fellow soldier.
Gabriel had faith in him.
Shakily getting his feet under him, he crouched, one hand firmly on the wall. His hands slipped, nails digging for some kind of hold. Biting back a whimper, Blake stood and, before he could second-guess himself, jumped with everything he had.
His stomach dropped as he entered the open air. Blake had a moment of what-the-fuck before he was hitting metal, knees buckling, and sending him face-first into the fire escape.
Pain is good, Gabriel said once.
Blake was going to hit him if he ever said it again.
His shoulder throbbed in the same beat as his tongue. The tang of pennies was nauseating, he spat, letting saliva and blood dribble out of his swollen lips between the metal slats and to the street below.
Phin grabbed him by the back of his jacket and yanked him up. Blake’s knees buckled, but he caught himself on the handrail. Phin didn’t stick around to see if Blake was all right; he began ascending the stairs, body twisted so he could keep his gun trained ahead.
Blake followed, eyes lingering on the slight limp Phin was trying to hide.
His hand lingered over the gun tucked into the holster on his hip.
Its weight wasn’t exactly reassuring. Blake hadn’t had much chance to practice with it.
Irving didn’t want to risk the noise attracting anything untoward—alien or human—and Phin was zealous about their ammo.
He didn’t want to waste it on plinking cans.
He unclipped the strap so the gun would be quicker to draw, but left it at that. He wanted his hands free for the syringe.
Phin’s broad back took up most of the stairs, and he moved up quickly.
Each time they passed a window, Blake looked in—sometimes he saw hallways and other times offices.
Most were nondescript. A desk, chair, and some shelves, maybe.
The offices were small. He could imagine the occupants looking out that same window, wishing they were outside enjoying the day rather than stuck inside.
Blake hoped that wasn’t them in the alley below.
The final landing opened up to a ladder to the roof at the end. Or at least, it was supposed to. The Monkey Cats had ripped it from the wall. It hung half off the roof, twisting over the streets.
Phin’s face was grim. “We’ll have to go inside.”
Blake didn’t think that was a good idea, but Phin wasn’t asking, so he followed him in through the broken window.
Inside the building was dark, the air stagnant and still.
There was a sickly sweet smell of rot that Blake recognized.
It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He tried to breathe through his mouth.
The narrow window spat them out into a break room. A small square Formica table had a molding birthday cake in the center with a box of candles lying next to it. Blake purposefully didn’t look at the writing on the cake.
Dust motes swirled in the weak streams of light from the window as Phin passed.
The hallway was dimmer than the break room, and Blake had to squint to make out the signage on closed doors as they moved closer to the center of the building.
Blake was trying to be quiet, but the sound of his breathing and the soft thumps of their boots on thin carpet designed for dress shoes sounded like thunder in his ears.
Even Phin, readjusting his gun, the minute squeaks of plastic on metal, had Blake jumping.
On the left, a door with Roof Access written on a placard appeared.
Phin tried the knob, but it was locked. He didn’t hesitate to use the butt of his gun to slam against the brass knob.
It took three tries before it snapped off, and he was able to slide the internal locking mechanism aside and open the door.
The door led to a narrow, pitch-black stairway that ended in a metal storm door. Phin waited for his vision to adjust before starting forward. Blake followed, grabbing the back of his plate carrier for guidance.
His heart was beating so loud he could almost hear it over the ringing in his ears.
Phin’s steps were sure and confident. He didn’t seem to notice the blackness pressing in on them or feel the need to look behind them, expecting something to appear at the bottom of the stairs like a cheap jump scare in a bad horror movie.
Phin seemed surprised when it turned, easily unlocked. Blake reached for the gun in his holster, pulling it free.
Do not shoot me.
That seemed ridiculous twenty minutes ago. Now Blake’s hands were shaking and clammy around the textured grip. He tightened his fingers and thumbed the safety off like Gabriel showed him the first time they’d ever held hands.
Sunlight poured in as the door swung open on tight hinges. Blake squinted against the sun, holding the gun out in front of him as Phin pushed the door fully open.
Blake’s vision cleared, and he saw an open rooftop, smaller than the first. Junk walls towered over them, leaning inward insidiously, like they were watching them with bated breath, sharp edges ready to snag them.
And in the shadow of one of the walls was Queen Dolly.
She was sitting on her haunches, head low.
Standing at least three feet taller than a regular Monkey Cat.
Both ears were tipped with long guard hairs, a large, pointed crest fanning out just behind her skull.
Her long tail lay coiled on the ground behind her.
As they watched, she began to listlessly knead at the ground with her massive claws, shifting her bloated belly to the side.
Like a pregnant woman trying to get comfortable.
Sunlight caught on her eye pieces—the bulbous goggles the Monkey Cats needed to protect their only consistent weak spot. They were almost iridescent, colors shimmering across the globed surfaces.
There was something different about the Queen. It was like looking at an original painting after only seeing it in pictures. She had a permanent quality. A bespoke creation rather than a cheap imitation.
Blake thought she was almost majestic in the same way a shark was. An apex predator existing on the same field, but playing the game at a whole other level.
She was alone. Used. Created to be nothing more than a breeding beast. All of her power was contained, shackled behind her uncomfortably bloated belly. Blake lowered his gun.
Attached to her back, just behind her sloping shoulder blades, were two thick…
ropes? No. More like filaments. Seemingly hollow, almost invisible against the sky.
They were so well cloaked he lost them more than he saw them.
They tugged on her skin as they caught in the wind, reaching so high into the sky he couldn’t find the end.
They must go to the ship.
Irving speculated that they kept her on the planet because it would be too risky to have consistent troop transport—even if the technology worked after the EMPs.
But they didn’t consider that the ship was mechanically attached to the Queen.
The filaments must be how they fed her. How they kept her contained and communicated with her. Bred her.
She was tethered.
It was cruel.
Suddenly, she stilled, her entire body coiling. That long tail began to twitch, slithering out from under her. Her muscles bunched, the sliding plates skittered across her skin as she slowly lifted her head. She twisted, huffing the air twice before dropping her head to look right at them.
Blake saw himself reflected in her goggles. He looked terrified.
Queen Dolly’s bifurcated jaws parted, the thin skin between the four hooks trembling as she screeched.